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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28987143">Messages From Deep Waters</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier'>J_Baillier</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And also the opposite, Angst, Don’t copy to another site, Empty sad loveless sex, Family, Grieving, John Watson is a Good Doctor, John is a Mess, John is good with his hands, M/M, MI6, Nothing wrong with casual sex except when it’s a plaster on a gaping wound, Pining, Ram problems, Regret, Romance, Sexuality Crisis, Sherlock Holmes Being a Drama Queen, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock/OMC encounter, Top shelf quality pining, Toxic Relationships, Tragedy, Unhealthy Relationships, deep sea fishing, different first meeting, get your mind out of the gutter, or on second thought don't, when he actually bothers to go to work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:36:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>56,470</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28987143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that people who settle in such isolated, wild places cradled and battered by the sea are exceptionally at peace with themselves or running away from something. Sherlock certainly knows which one applies to him, but what about his reclusive neighbour John Watson?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes &amp; Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1278</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>603</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. In Which A Ghost Moves Into The Old Drever House</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's September. In London, Sherlock never pays attention to the seasons beyond noticing when it gets too hot for his favourite coat. Now, standing on the pebbles lining the throat of a small inlet on the craggy shore of Noup Bay on Westray island, he realises he may need to start cultivating heightened meteorological awareness. The sun is setting, and the RIB which had carried him here is now becoming smaller and smaller as the churning waves carry it back towards the mainland. The sky above is gunmetal grey, the air tastes of bitter brine, and racing rain clouds pass above so close as though they might touch treetops — were there any on this mostly barren rock jutting defiantly out of the Atlantic.</p><p>Sherlock feels no sense of time as he watches the RIB, now but a bobbling speck on the grey cauldron of the sea, disappear into the horizon. The waves reflecting the disconsolate colour palette of the sky are crashing close and will soon soak his Italian leather shoes if he doesn't retreat away from the water's edge.</p><p>He has never thought of the islands off the northern coast of Scotland as nothing more than meaningless leftover bits of land. <em>It'll be home for the time being,</em> he tries to tell himself, but the notion feels absurd. He didn't choose this; his presence is just a temporary necessity. </p><p>
  <em>Home. For how long?</em>
</p><p>He manages to clamber up the rocks to where the grass begins, worried that he'll slip in his smooth-soled shoes. <em>Where to, now?</em></p><p>Forty-eight hours earlier he was still in London, and he still had his phone. Now, his possessions consist of the clothes he's wearing, small torch and a plastic bag he'd been given by his train companion. There are abrasions on his wrists from the cable ties his kidnappers had used four days ago, and he feels a fresh batch of rage towards his brother swell up. Admittedly it's not Mycroft's fault that Sherlock had managed to piss off the Russian mafia, got himself into a bit of a diplomatic pickle with Mossad, and is on the kill list of a Sheffield-based motorcycle gang. It is, however, his brother's fault that he's not headed for an MI6 safe house somewhere nice and warm. Instead, Mycroft had confiscated his phone and told him no uncertain terms to '<em>get in the bloody car while I start fixing this mess</em>'. Sherlock knows his brother well enough not to have inquired how long that might possibly take. Mycroft couldn't even summon his signature snide superiority to cover his anger, so things were serious.</p><p>
  <em>The Mossad thing Mycroft can probably fix with a nice cup of tea and a covert arms deal. The rest… </em>
</p><p>The car ride was followed by a sleeper train compartment in the company of a broody, walk-in-fridge -sized agent as Sherlock's pretend-I-don't-know-you berthmate, then another tediously predictable black car. Finally, he was ordered to stand on a wind-beaten pier while being strapped into a life vest by an agent, as though Sherlock was some toddler in dungarees incapable of executing such a simple task without unremitting oversight. Then came the RIB that bounced him violently towards what he deduced would be one of the Orkney islands. Knuckles white, he had squeezed the safety rope on the rounded side of the large-for-its-type army vessel. Particularly spirited waves sent the boat airborne several times, and the camo-textured cagoule which he'd been supplied with had not prevented his trousers and socks from getting wet. It speaks volumes about how tight intelligence service budgets are that they'd even confiscated the garment before dumping him on the shore. <em>Bloody skinflints</em>. His long, woollen coat is perfect for London winters but will be impractical for a scramble around some Godforsaken excuse of an island.</p><p>On the RIB, he had tried not to imagine being flung by a particularly vicious crest of a wave into the raging sea, his heavy coat pulling him down into the depths. People say drowning is not a very bad way to go, but the thought of it has always made him shudder. Even if not physically so horrid, it must the loneliest way to depart this earth. Then again, Sherlock has never expected to be anything but alone at any important turn of his life.</p><p>He's here because Mycroft wants to teach him a lesson and keep him safe in that priority order. Possibly he's also worried Sherlock might use if he gets bored, and what else is there to do in an MI6 safe house on some remote island infested likely mostly by puffins than to expire from tedium?</p><p>Couldn't they have left that beefy bodyguard with him as a butler? Definitely the strong and silent type, perhaps he could have made a passable butler. He has no idea how life on an island such as this one even works. <em>Alone protects me</em>, he reminds himself, but his belief is being diluted by a sense of desolation the likes of which he cannot remember experiencing in London. The darkness here, approaching fast, must be impenetrable without starlight. He hopes his torch has batteries.</p><p>The grass, wet with rain, is as slippery under his shoes as the algae-covered rocks had been. It occurs to him to open finally the plastic bag and read the note there. His wallet had been confiscated, presumably so that his cards wouldn't leave an electronic trail, so he's relieved to find some money and a note.</p><p><em>'Follow the road and turn left at the fork. First house on the left is yours. Contact person at lighthouse.' </em>These are the only instructions he's given. There is no burner phone, no compass, no map. <em>Mycroft is in fine form when it comes to punishing misbehaving siblings. </em>Or perhaps there wouldn't even be a mobile network out here.</p><p>Grass gives way to an unpaved, muddy road. The wind slips inside Sherlock's coat and raises goosebumps. The surrounding landscape is treeless and flat, and he feels like a sitting duck as he hastens his steps.</p><p>The first house on the left is small, close to the water's edge. No lock on the door. If there is a light switch, he cannot find it. At least the flashlight works. Sherlock wonders if someone has truly lived here or if it's just a fisherman's hut, nothing but shelter from the elements for a night before heading back out to sea. Every surface is sticky with insect residue and dust moistened by the salty air. Old, tatty curtains hang limp and empty tins of food line the small sink in the kitchen. There is a fridge, unplugged and empty. His plastic bag contains protein and chocolate bars, two bottles of water and powdered milk. And tea, of course. <em>Not even Mycroft Holmes would be cruel enough to leave a fellow Englishman without.</em></p><p>Sherlock doesn't bother with the food. He's too restless, too running on fumes and adrenaline for his digestive impulses to kick in. His appetite is fickle at the best of times, and under duress it's logical for such baser, unimportant impulses to give way to more important tasks. He feels frozen to the bone, and the unheated house shields him from the wind, but not the cold. He searches the house just as the sun drags itself below the horizon, but he's unsure as to what it is that he hopes to find. The limited survey he does with the help of his torch tells him the house is a mess. <em>As though a poltergeist has been loose.</em></p><p>There is a stove but no firewood, and he can't find matches in the dark. He has a lighter and a packet of cigarettes, of which there are two left. He'd smoked heavily during the last twenty-four hours and knows he might want to spare the last two for a moment when his unease might escalate. He suspects they'll be needed in the dead of night once he tries to settle into the bed and reality really sinks in of his circumstances.</p><p>There is a bed in the corner of the second room. He doesn't want to even think about how many humans have marinated the old spring mattress with their bodily fluids. Inspecting the state of the sheets left in under the illumination from the flashlight does not entice. He coils himself down onto the bed without even taking off his coat.</p><p>The sounds are so different from the familiar lullaby of London car traffic. He can hear the house creaking as the old wood lives as the temperature dips. Wind howls in the corners and a lonely seagull calls out somewhere in the distance. Something, possibly a mouse, is making scratchy noises in the other room.</p><p>The sense of loneliness washes over like the waves he can hear crashing against the shore. Not even the best of composers could have created a more fitting soundtrack to his resolve threatening to break — determination to waltz through this ordeal with the calm resolve of a monk to prove to his brother he's stronger than the man thinks.</p><p><em>'Alone protects nobody. That's just some BS your brother told you'</em>. That's what Victor had said to Sherlock the night he'd come by with a bottle of vodka after a mission had gone tits-up in somewhere in the Balkans. Back then, alcohol had still been Victor's drug of choice. A few months and a few more missions later, there were other drugs. Even Sherlock who never prides himself in deciphering the emotions of others could see that Victor would have needed more than standard MI6 debriefings to exorcise the night hags that had leeched onto him during those missions. Victor denied it all, of course, tried to keep the lights on in his career with amphetamine and cocaine. And he dragged Sherlock into all that, too. The cocaine was an old love rekindled, a reunion with an old friend. Sherlock never could resist a good oblivion, whether that be with sex or from illicit substances. With Victor, it was often both.</p><p>Sherlock knows those things are a poor substitute for someone who might want to stay. It's just that he doesn't have a choice in the matters.</p><p>Nobody ever stays, and Victor is dead, now, anyway.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. In Which The Trials Of Island Life Are Revealed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"His remains could not be recovered, but we have undisputed evidence of his demise," Mycroft said that day.</p><p>Sherlock did not respond beyond a nod, did not utter a single word.</p><p>Mycroft told him there would be no funeral. Sherlock assumed it was because there was no one to mourn for the man. It's good business for MI6 to recruit people with no families and very few living relatives. He could have argued that, without a body, very little is undisputed, but there a chance that something gruesome delivered to the MI6 had proven conclusively the disposal of their agent.</p><p>"I won't pretend to have understood your relationship…" Mycroft started after the silence in his home library had stretched unbearably.</p><p>Unbearably for Mycroft, that is. For Sherlock, silence was safety. A shroud behind which he had always concealed his true self. Silence is a cache of weapons unknown to the enemy.</p><p>"I won't, either," Sherlock countered and lit a cigarette even though Mycroft had insisted for years that he didn't allow smoking indoors.</p><p>"If you insist on getting involved with people––"</p><p>"I didn't insist." Victor was attractive and willing. That was all it took, and he hated himself for it even when the man was still alive. He hated missing Victor, but he just couldn't decide if it was worse than he felt when they were together. He'd never assumed love equalled anything but pain, and he had decided, early on, that love shouldn't be anything he'd deign to feeling for Victor Alexander Trevor.</p><p>"Nevertheless. Men like him are the worst possible choice for someone like you," Mycroft mused morbidly, placing two fingers of whisky in a tumbler on the small side table next to Sherlock's armchair.</p><p>"What's that supposed to mean? Men like <em>what</em>?"</p><p>"Men who do not <em>care</em>. It requires a very particular sort of self-centredness to do what he did for a living. It's not a vocation, it's a calling."</p><p>"A calling to get killed so that poncy paper-pushers like you can move on to the next crisis and whip out yet another batch of disposable idiots to shove at the enemy of the week?"</p><p>Sherlock felt like his biting tone merely nipped at his brother's proverbial heels like a terrier unwilling to accept the size difference of it and its owner, and the frustration made him feel even worse. Trust Mycroft Holmes to shame him for giving a toss if someone lived or died.</p><p>"Trevor was a patriot. That's what separated the two of you and why you'll never understand why dedicating one's life to service to the Crown is the highest calling a man could have."</p><p>"Kind of hard to have a <em>calling</em> when one is dead," Sherlock scoffed.</p><p>Mycroft downed primly the last of his own drink. "Let it out, if you must. Not the first time I've had to act as your emotional punching bag."</p><p>"We weren't in a relationship. No need for histrionics."</p><p>"Of course not."</p><p>The cold, sceptical amusement emanating from his brother made Sherlock grind his teeth.</p><p>Victor was just someone who occasionally barged into his life and sucked all the air out of the room. Next to Victor, he had always felt an odd sense of being diminished, of fading from view. It was all the small things: the way Victor never asked about what he'd been up to when he'd been away because he seemed to think Sherlock's job as a consulting detective was hardly worthy of attention. Victor's words and actions and the looks he gave signalled clearly that he believed that what he did on his assignments had more worth than the domestic disputes and lost items and the occasional murder Sherlock solved. Victor probably committed them abroad as fast as Sherlock solved them on their native soil.</p><p>Victor believed firmly that what he did was justified as long as he was obeying orders — orders coming from someone such as Mycroft, who cared more about playing spy games than he did about the lives of his subordinates. Sherlock had once asked Victor how he could not see the irrationality in that. Victor had shrugged and told him he just didn't understand.</p><p>Usually, when people get involved with others, it adds things to their lives. With Victor, Sherlock had felt <em>less</em>, and losing the man really hammered the lesson home. He had the uncanny ability to make normal things people tend to want in a relationship seem trite and trivial. As a consequence, Sherlock never voiced the desire to do things such as walking in Regent's park or a film or a dinner in Chinatown. He loved — still loves — London, while Victor's desire was to leave it behind as often as possible.</p><p><em>What would he have thought of this place?</em> Sherlock wonders when exhaustion finally robs him of consciousness.</p><p><br/>
______________</p><p> </p><p>His bladder chases Sherlock out of bed in the ghost hours of the night. His survey of the house had not revealed a bathroom earlier, and another sweep with his torch ascertains that there isn't even a toilet indoors. Sherlock is thus forced to grit his teeth and endure what has turned into a howling gale outside. He relieves himself in the bushes, realising that the small building barely visible in a copse must be an outhouse. He wouldn't have even noticed it if its open door hadn't been banging against a tree in a disturbing rhythmic accompaniment to the pounding of his heart. He hasn't used in weeks, but the erratic heartbeat and anxiety still linger.</p><p>After tucking himself back into his trousers and re-buttoning his coat, he attempts to close the door to the rickety latrine. Wind whistles through the holes in its walls, and an old styrofoam ring placed on the seat for warmth levitates in the draft. Sherlock stares at it, wondering if this is a safe house or Mycroft's covert penal colony for misbehaving agents.</p><p>______________</p><p> </p><p>He wakes feeling hungover on everything that has happened in the past few days with his back stiff and his neck in a crick from the old mattress. He's not eaten properly or drank any significant amount of water in over a day. This is not exceptionally long period for him, but a definitely longing for the reassuring warmth of a mug of tea is brewing.</p><p>When he raises his torso to lean up on his elbows, he can lift the edge of a worn curtain to see outside. Last night he hadn't realised how close the house is to the waves. The sky remains grey, and the waves are licking seaweed-draped rocks. Beyond the proximity of the shore the sea looks like scalloped fish scales due to surface gusts of wind. Sitting up, Sherlock cracks open the window to banish the musty smells inside and is greeted by the screeching of seagulls and terns and the smell of fermented, drying seaweed.</p><p>He peels himself off his bunk, his sea-salt damp clothes clinging to his skin, causing him to shudder. The corners of the house are creaking even in this gentle wind, and the sunlight has a cold quality to it. Perhaps even worse weather is approaching. <em>Is there any other kind here</em>? he wonders.</p><p>What dominates his thoughts still as he plants his still shoe-clad feet on the floor is tea. He'll have to find some water and some firewood before achieving what, at home, is the simplest of tasks for an Englishman. He bares his teeth thinking of Mycroft, probably sitting down at this very moment in his tidy kitchen, an ironed morning paper primly arranged onto a silver tray by the housekeeper next to a perfectly brewed cup of Assam.</p><p><em>Firewood. Water.</em> <em>Best get to it</em>.</p><p>He finds a dry, fallen tree branch as thick as his arm under a massive oak tree at the edge of the property. An axe looking like it would benefit from sharpening has been swung into a log next to a dilapidated shed, the door of which has been fastened with twine. Judging by the chipped surface of the large log, it has been used for making firewood. While whoever is in charge of looking after MI6's safe houses is probably drinking on the job, the design for the service's headquarters was influenced by Mayan and Aztec temples. Sherlock knows this as an enthusiast for London history, and he considers those facts very befitting Mycroft, who is certainly demonstrating a predilection for human sacrifice by sending his only brother to this hellhole.</p><p>Not wanting to get dust and splinters stuck in his jacket, Sherlock strips down to his shirtsleeves. The manual labour should keep him warm even in the biting wind. A crow is making a sardonic racket in the tree above, and though he can't spot the bird, Sherlock directs a glare in its assumed direction.</p><p>After a frustrating start, he finds the right angle for getting through the dense wood, and the correct strength with which to strike. After chopping the branch, he finds some small logs under a tarp. They are dry enough that they should catch fire with the help of crumpled-up paper. Some of them are pine, perhaps even Scots pine; they must have been brought in from mainland since there are very few trees in the stretch of coastline Sherlock can now see in the light of day.</p><p>He'd been so longing for tea that surveying the land hadn't been a priority. Now, he pushes sweaty locks off his forehead and turns on his heel, allowing himself a break.</p><p>The house, sitting on the shore, must be threatened to be lapped by rising water during storms. What Sherlock assumes in the lagoon-like beach he'd been left on last night is off to the north, judging by how the tree branches he'd made note of last night are sequestered. There is another house off to the west, too far and too small to analyse whether it's even inhabited. What looks like abandoned fields surround the house assigned to him, now nothing but grassland and small bushes. The oak tree he's standing under is the only shelter local land birds must have available, and Sherlock can see several nests on the branches above. The rocks lining the sea are craggy and low here, but the land rises dramatically towards the lighthouse. There must be handsome cliffs beyond the drop, and Sherlock makes a mental note to go explore that area once he gets himself settled.</p><p>This is a place of beauty, but not the lush sort that gets featured in travel brochures, not the sort that the people his brother described the goldfish masses of Britons dream of for their holidays. No, this is a beauty which requires humility and skill to enjoy. <em>Not for day visitors safely cocooned in some tour bus</em>.</p><p>Sherlock carries an armful of firewood into the house, and once he has the kitchen stove and the sitting room fireplace going, he digs out the note that had been in the plastic bag.</p><p>It says <em>'Westray. Contact: Angus Ardle, Noup Head Lighthouse</em>'.</p><p>He knows the name Westray — it's one of the Orkney Islands. He had known in the train that they were headed to Scotland, but being taken so far out was a surprise. Transporting an agent in and out of the country across the Atlantic must be a viable option for black ops; a sturdy RIB could travel to Norway or the Denmark-governed Faroe islands.</p><p>Sherlock hopes the lighthouse mentioned on the note is the one he can see stubbornly jutting out of a raised cape a few kilometres away because he has no means of transport.</p><p>There is what he assumes is a landline number on the paper, with an MI6 stamp instructing him to '<em>destroy memo after reading</em>'. He won't. Not right now. He's currently too tea-deprived and rattled to memorise even a phone number.</p><p><em>Next up: water</em>. He's certain he'd spotted a round concrete well in the back garden, and there is a bucket with a rope in the kitchen. He tests the fibres' strength by trying to pull the rope off the bucket: it holds. There's no telling if it'll withstand the weight of the water.</p><p>When he opens the rusted, metallic lid of the well, an odd smell greets him, so he points the flashlight down into the depths. The water level is low, the colour of it is brown, and the bloated corpse of a hare floats in the middle, its eyes milky grey and barely even reflecting light. <em>I'll get sick if I drink from that.</em></p><p>He curses. The two half-litre water bottles supplied by his escorts won't last long, and he can hardly drink seawater. It's time to see if this Angus Ardle is of any help.</p><p> </p><p>_____________<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The phone in the kitchen works.</p><p>"Lloooo," drawls someone at the end of the line after picking up past a few rings.</p><p>"Hello? Is this Mr Ardle?"</p><p>"Me, yes."</p><p>Sherlock decides it’s best to avoid giving his name. "I'm calling from the house on… I was given your contact information by… you should know who," Sherlock explains. "Well's contaminated and I need water."</p><p>The man at the other end warbles something vaguely concerned. Sherlock cannot make out any of the words, but this is not due to a bad connection. The man's accent is one he has never encountered before — there is a Scottish drawl on the bottom like the base of a tapestry, but the layers atop it are heavy Nordic influences and a strange, mangled inflection Sherlock suspects might be due to a stroke years earlier.</p><p><em>'Moment</em>' is a word he finally manages to decipher, just before Ardle hangs up on him. Had the man understood him? Why would they choose someone like that as an MI6 contact person? <em>Just because nobody in their right mind would suspect him?</em></p><p>In a few minutes, his ears pick up the sound of a motorcycle. It’s clearly not a new model: it splutters and rumbles unevenly, and the person driving it is making no effort to use gas steadily. A large plastic container which Sherlock assumes contains water has been fastened to it. A man Sherlock would estimate is in his late seventies climbs off the bike, moving without hesitation as though he's been to this house many times before. He's of medium height, with messy grey hair tucked into an old flat cap. The wax coat he wears is old but of high quality, and his wellingtons have cracks from years of exposure to sun and seawater. Laugh lines are etched deep on his features where scars — which look like they were caused by fish hooks — and a bushy grey beard are not concealing facial skin.</p><p>"Mister Ardle, I presume?" Sherlock asks.</p><p>The old man's rumble of a bass confirms this — if not by words, then at least by tone. He walks straight past Sherlock with a nod, heading towards the well. Ardle lifts the lid and tuts. "Nooo," he drawls, then fixes Sherlock with his gaze. "Them 'eeyrs. They get inn."</p><p>"Yes, I have established that. Is there any way to clean the well, or purify the water, or––"</p><p>Ardle closes the lid, taps it, and turns to face him. "Just moor 'eeyrs." He then launches into a spirited explanation which might or might not be about alternate ways to acquire drinking water.</p><p>Ardle then waddles back to his bike, recovers the plastic contained and drops in on the ground. "Tree daes," he says, emphasising the message by sticking up three fingers and then tapping his nose with his forefinger with a conspiratorial smile.</p><p>Sherlock nods. There's got to be at least fifty litres in the container. He can make that last three days. He won’t be able to wash himself, but at least he'll have some bloody tea. With any luck, Mycroft will have things sorted in London soon and Sherlock will be out of here before the water runs out.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. In Which Darkness Falls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Why are you trying to recruit me for this? You know I detest your tedious little spy games. Shouldn't this be MI5's problem and not your realm, anyway?" Sherlock complained.</p><p>From where he was draped over the couch with the hems of his Derek Rose dressing gown flowing over the edge of the seat cushion, he could hear his brother stirring his tea as though he was playing a Tibetan singing bowl. The dressing gown had been a gift from Mycroft the last time Sherlock had agreed to assist him with something. This time, he wanted Sherlock to help find out who was sharing classified MI6 information with MI5. Why two government agencies talking to each other for a chance was a problem warranting a hush-hush operation involving a rogue little brother, Sherlock couldn't fathom. Mycroft probably had decided that it threatened his power position within the fabric of British intelligence. <em>Small men with their human chess matches</em>.</p><p>"I need someone I can trust not to have opportunistic motives," Mycroft argued, frowning at the chipped mug in which Sherlock had deliberately delivered his tea.</p><p>"You flatter me so."</p><p>"Since you are my sibling, no one considers us conversing suspicious."</p><p>"They would if they knew the two of us. You never show up unless it's to begrudge or attempt to manipulate my life choices or to attempt to hire me as some freelancer spook. Do go haunt somebody else. I'm busy."</p><p>Mycroft's gaze swept around the cluttered sitting room. "Manifestly so," he sniffed.</p><p>There were antique ashtrays and other objects doubling as ashtrays on most surfaces, papers and clothes and empty cigarette packets scattered about. Admittedly, Sherlock's choice of clothing or the state of his personal hygiene at that time did not quite signal that he had anything important going on. Damn his brother for dangling before him a bit of intellectual stimulation, even if it was some MI6 nonsense. And damn himself for succumbing to the temptation. He blamed Victor, still does. That day, Sherlock couldn't tell how much of Mycroft's covert operation was about trying to drag him back into the land of the living from the isolation of the living dead he had adopted after hearing the news of Victor's demise. He shouldn't have taken the case, but his judgement was impaired by the cerebral stagnation of having allowed himself to go without a case for too long. Some people might suspect that he was also intellectually impaired by grief, but Sherlock liked to think he always rose above such pedestrian things. <em>Everyone dies, and one should be lucky to choose the manner in which to go.</em></p><p>A week later — two weeks ago — Sherlock had waded waist-deep into international espionage. The choices he made during that case proved quite disastrous in that they brought him here to Westray. Whether they resulted from not caring about many things in the wake of what happened with Victor, the consequence of a churning thirst for vengeance towards his brother for the lies and the omissions over the year, or if he would have made them in any stage of his life, he still cannot tell.</p><p>"<em>You have a death wish but you're just too lazy to do anything about it</em>," Victor had once joked in bed, and Sherlock had protested because he didn't think the description fit him very well. Having a death wish is not the same as seeing little point in active self-preservation. Which of the two of them really had such a wish? Which of them routinely engaged in work that took them to the terrorism strongholds of the world, gun cocked and ready? Which of them endured such a life and had convinced themselves that fucking someone into the mattress was as good a debriefing for those missions as sitting down with an MI6-accredited therapist?</p><p>Shaking his head as if to banish physically these thoughts of Victor, Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair and grunts. He desperately needs a shower but doesn't have the water to spare. Without his hair products available, the end result would be something resembling an afro propped on a pasty Englishman. His curls look better greasy than they do without the substances he uses to tame them.</p><p>Not that anyone here cares what he looks like. The only one who's seen him is Angus Ardle, and Sherlock doubts the man even owns a comb. Ardle's bushy beard can't have seen scissors in years. <em>He looks like a wizard gone mad</em>. A part of Sherlock envies such an existence as Ardle's, living alone in a lighthouse at the mercy of the elements. Or perhaps not the existence, but the mindset living like that must require. He's always been content in his own company. Content, but not happy. <em>What sort of bargaining must one perform with oneself and the world to want to dwell in solitude in such a barren, desolate place?</em></p><p>Has Ardle had friends, once? A wife? Perhaps that wife could not take the long, cold, dark winters and retreated to mainland. Perhaps those friends are dead. Or perhaps Angus Ardle is married to his work, like Sherlock.</p><p>Victor had laughed at him when he'd said that, though. "<em>At least your work won't complain that you leave the toilet seat up.</em>"</p><p>Sherlock had protested that he never does. Victor always complained about the state of his flat, but still never took Sherlock to his own. Sherlock had assumed he was paranoid about someone knowing where it was, or just wanted to keep it all to himself as a personal sanctum.</p><p>He shouldn't dwell on the concept of friends, especially not now. He won't befriend anyone here, because he's going to be leaving soon. Not that he ever befriends anyone anywhere. Some people tolerate him, like DI Greg Lestrade and that pathologist at Barts, though she appeared to be seeing him as a potential romantic partner rather than a work acquaintance until Sherlock had once brought Victor along. A body had popped up in a serial killer investigation hours after Victor had showed up at Sherlock's doorstep. He knew Victor wouldn't be disturbed by the sight of a dead person, even if they'd met quite a gruesome end. He'd wanted Victor to see a bit of his work, to demonstrate why he was good at it.</p><p>"<em>Can we go now</em>?" had been Victor's only comment.</p><p><br/>____________</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Determined not to spend another night with the torch as his only light source, Sherlock searches the house and the shed and discovers a small generator in the latter connected to a line that goes to the back of the house. It must have powered the fridge, the lamp on the bedside cabinet and the hanging bulbs in the kitchen and sitting room. He's never used one, but the controls are not complicated. Yet it won't start. Logical, since it has no fuel. The two canisters he finds are empty. If Ardle is responsible for keeping this place stocked, Sherlock is going to make certain that he gets sacked as soon as he's back in London.</p><p>Everywhere he looks, the place is screaming out for repairs, for maintenance, for renovations updating it to the new millennium. Perhaps such things have been left undone because of a fear that any such operation would draw attention to who might own the place.</p><p>By the time it gets dark, it's at least warm inside, and the glow from the fireplace paints the interior in a warm yellow light that makes the shadows in the corner retreat just so. The bedroom cupboard contains a woollen cardigan in a sliding colour that reminds Sherlock of green volcanic glass. Such coarse wool scratches, but he cannot afford to decline the warmth it provides.</p><p>There are so many things to work out: laundry, replenishing the water, acquiring more food. Surely there is a store somewhere on the island? Or do the inhabitants here take a boat to a larger island nearby? He'll contact Ardle tomorrow, request a ride into the village if there is one. No point in doing it in the dark. He can make tea, and there are a couple of protein bars in the plastic bag still. He never eats when he's on a case and technically, this case won't end until Mycroft manages to either dispose of many people or negotiate some under-the-table intelligence treaty so that Sherlock could return home.</p><p>He curls up in the corduroy-upholstered armchair in front of the fire and dozes off. What wakes him up some hours later is the window in the bedroom creaking and banging. The wind has picked up considerably, and a fresh front of rain has arrived. He'd left the window so wide open that half of the bedding is now damp. He returns to the armchair, drapes his coat on himself like a throw, and sleeps like a dog, jerking awake every time the house makes a louder noise.</p><p>Victor had told him about seeing the stars out in the desert, how many more there were than one could ever see in London. Tonight, there are no stars, just the glowing embers in the fireplace. The lighthouse at Noup Head is too high on a cliff and the house is too well concealed from its line of sight for the sweeping light to reach here.</p><p>Sherlock has never felt alone like this in London. He hadn't ever realised how the sounds of the other inhabitants of the building, the pedestrians, the cars driving by helped him feel less isolated. The darkness is different, too. Unpolluted by the city lights, it's like being draped in black velvet. Thick like molasses and alive, it is a mythical beast swallowing everything in its path. Sherlock gets up at midnight to close the curtains; he's unsettled by an irrational fear of someone looking in. There's no one here — Ardle must be tucked away in bed in the lighthouse, and birds must have retreated into their cliff and tree dwellings for the night. Sherlock has never read up on these islands, has never paid them much mind, so he doesn't know who else might be living on this rock, if anyone.<br/><br/></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. In Which John Watson Meets William Vernet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Sherlock wakes up in the morning, he's shivering violently. Nothing but ashes remain in the fireplace and he has so little firewood left he can either get it going or make tea on the wood-burning stove in the kitchen, not both. Last night, he'd also wondered if he could create a wedge that he could hammer into the doorway of the outhouse, which he could then turn so that it would prevent the door from gaping all the time.</p><p>He needs to think about food, about clothes, about transport to somewhere he could acquire both, but he's so cold, hungry and sleep-deprived that he can't even decide which urgent need to address first. He'd haunted the house for most of the night, shoving logs into the flames and listening to the northeast wind try to huff and puff the dwelling down. It must have been close to sunrise when he'd dozed off for longer than an hour, only to wake up stiff after sleeping curled up in such an uncomfortable position. At least the now fading warmth had dried the bed linens. They smell like a sweaty human roasted on a fire pit, vintage body odour mixing with earthy aromas of wood smoke and seaweed. They should be washed, and Sherlock might even be willing to do that in the sea if he has no other option, but he's not found a spare set. <em>What the hell kind of an operation is MI6 running here?</em></p><p>The longing for tea hits like a kick to the stomach. He loathes himself for being plebeian enough to be so hung up on these comforting rituals. Gritting his teeth, he rolls up the sleeves of the cable-knit jumper he's worn since yesterday and heads out to the block and the pile of logs.</p><p>The one he picks from the pile and hoists onto the block is pine with large branches sliced off with a chainsaw. The branches make the wood halve unevenly, unpredictably, and his hands fumble from the cold and the exhaustion. His second strike, one that should have cut one half of the log into quarters, only manages to ricochet off a splinter which slices a cut into his arm. A bit of it imbeds in the wound, which begins bleeding profusely.</p><p>Sherlock curses. The Dolce &amp; Gabbana dress shirt underneath the jumper will be ruined, but at least he's wearing the old, mangy jumper and not his eight-hundred-pound suit jacket, which is currently draped on a kitchen chair. It probably smells like a smokehouse now, too. He slips off the jumper and carefully unbuttons his shirt while the crimson from his arm seeps out and drips onto the barren ground. Grunting from pain and annoyance, he slip out of the shirt and wraps it around his arm. It'll be ruined, and he has nothing else to wear under the woollen, scratchy jumper. His pale torso is quickly to goosebump, and soon a sudden flash of cold both from the air and the blood loss makes his stomach lurch and a violet shiver travel down his form. Hurrying to the house makes him dizzy, and he is forced to sit on the eroded concrete block serving as the landing in front of the door before he's able to climb the three steps to get inside. There are no medical supplies in the house — he would have found them by now in his search for food and other useful things. The blood has now drenched the shirt through. Gripping the edge of it with his teeth, he wraps the shirt even tighter around his arm, and drapes his long, woollen coat around his shoulders for a bit of warmth. His vision keeps gaining black dots and he knows he should stop moving, but he must call for help first. He's not lost enough blood yet for it to be life-threatening, probably won't even warrant a transfusion, but being so deprived of food and sleep and tea and peace of mind, it's hardly surprising that such a modest injury would drain his energy. <em>I've had worse. Much worse.</em></p><p>His heart skips a beat from relief when Angus Ardle answers the phone on the second ring. Leaning against the wall in the kitchen, Sherlock explains his predicament. Ardle replies that he'll be "royt theeer", which Sherlock deciphers as a promise to render assistance in the near future.</p><p>It takes him two tries to slam the receiver back on the phone, and he barely makes it to the bedroom before his vision narrows again and he starts hearing a sound that resembles putting a large seashell on his ear. He lets his eyes drift closed until he hears a familiar old motorcycle stutter to a stop outside. Leaning on his elbows and lifting the curtain, Sherlock sees that Angus has parked it right next to the front steps this time. It has a sidecar — how had Sherlock missed that the last time? It had been parked sideways, but it's not typical of him to be so unobservant. <em>This place is messing with my head and now it wants blood</em>.</p><p>He makes his way to the kitchen, feeling steadier on his feet now. The white shirt around his arm hasn't become any bloodier than it had been when he had ended the call; wrapping it tighter must have helped. <em>I'll live</em>.</p><p>He drops into the kitchen chair, lets his head loll back against the grimy kitchen wall.</p><p>Angus calls out a "hellooo" from the door, then lets himself in and finds Sherlock in the kitchen.</p><p>"Oooh," the lighthousekeeper comments at the sight of the bloodied, shirt-wrapped arm. He lifts the edge of a sleeve but does not attempt to unwrap it. There's a word salad with some empathetic head-shaking, then the words "ay, doct'r" seem to agree with Sherlock's repeated suggestion that they might go looking for some medical care.</p><p>Ardle's calloused fingers, the knuckles cracked like Japanese raku pottery, curl around Sherlock's opposite to tug him up from the chair. "Op yar get."</p><p>"<em>Is </em>there even a doctor on this island?" Sherlock asks.</p><p>Angus' answer is incomprehensible, but his determined manhandling of Sherlock towards the door seems to signal that there is at least somewhere they can go. Sherlock hopes it's not the lighthouse. He wouldn't want to be at the mercy of some Orkneyan voodoo the old fool might rustle up.</p><p>Ardle helps him climb into the sidecar of the moss-green Kawasaki Bushwhacker. Its coat of paint is worn, but some parts shine as though having been polished recently. Everything about the old bike signals that it receives regular loving care from its owner. <em>Perhaps it's been here even longer than Ardle</em>.</p><p>Angus seems amused by something in Sherlock's reaction to the old bike, revealing a set of tobacco-yellowed teeth behind that grey, lichen-like beard. "Ne'er", he says, and it sounds like a promise, "left m' on the roood." He spits over his shoulder as though for good luck or superstition, then climbs on.</p><p>"There's a first time for everything," Sherlock mutters, making sure that his coat is pulled all the way into the sidecar.</p><p> </p><p>____________</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock expects to be taken to the opposite end of the island, somewhere far enough not to be visible from his house. Maybe there is a village, perhaps even a GP surgery. Sherlock knows at least that Westray is one of the bigger Orkney islands, big enough to have some local services.</p><p>He is surprised when Angus drives them no further than the house Sherlock had seen in the distance along the same coastline as his own. Sherlock realises his assumption that Angus in the lighthouse is his only neighbour is not based on solid data; signs of life here would have been hard to spot without binoculars. Sherlock can now see that this house is lived in: it's old, but someone has been doing some loving repairs. The now-withered roses drooping off a trellis by the door must have been a beautiful sight during the summer, and the bannister has been recently replaced. A banged-up Range Rover is tucked away at the end of the road leading to the house, safe from the wind behind some apple trees. Some fruit still sits on the ground, rotting and being feasted upon by the last butterflies of the summer. The house is further away from the shore than Sherlock's; perhaps the surrounding fields, now pushing up yellowed flowers and tall grass dancing in the breeze, had once been farmed by the inhabitants.</p><p>Angus bangs on the door.</p><p>"I thought we were going to find a village nurse or go to the local surgery?" Sherlock asks, suspicious. He wouldn't put it past Angus to go look for the village witch instead, since he can't be sure whether the man is in his right mind. Perhaps he's looked after the lighthouse for decades and lost it, sanity scattered to the winds that batter these wild lands. Maybe Angus has no idea what to do with an injury and has come here to buy cheap liquor off a neighbour to help Sherlock fend off the pain.</p><p>"Be'rrr," Angus says. "Royht as rahn," he tells Sherlock, cocking his head towards the arm Sherlock is cradling.</p><p>He can hear a radio on inside the house; someone must be home. <em>Maybe they just have no interest in answering the door.</em></p><p>"Ou' barch," Angus decides.</p><p>Before Sherlock is able to decipher any of the old man's drawl, Angus has grabbed the edge of his coat and begins dragging him around the corner towards a vegetable garden.</p><p>There, Sherlock nearly walks into a man roughly his age — perhaps a few years on top — with sandy, wind-tousled blond hair, a very short-trimmed, neat beard and a posture which instantly, instinctively sharpens when his jaw whips up and he comes face to face with the intruders. It takes the man but a split second to take in the sight of Sherlock and Angus, and he seems to relax fractionally upon recognising the latter.</p><p>The reaction is odd — it is that of a man not accustomed to visitors. The owner of the house shifts his gaze from Angus to Sherlock then back again as though trying to very carefully decide how favourably he should receive them.</p><p><em>There's nothing to fear here, and crime must be tediously non-existent</em>, Sherlock reasons. <em>Perhaps such a reaction is the remnant of something else, a very different life lived elsewhere</em>. Why would someone with a military posture and over-sensitised alertness live here? <em>Then again, why wouldn't they?</em></p><p>"Angus," the man nods. "Who's this?" The man's gaze slips back to Sherlock. His eyes are measuring and careful, but amicable. <em>Sky blue and bright</em>, Sherlock notes, his own meeting those inquisitive yet wary eyes.</p><p>"Geah," Angus says, pursing his lips. He then launches into an animated explanation, none of which Sherlock understands, but the blond man clearly has had practice interpreting the lighthouse-keeper's obscure speech, and he's nodding empathetically. Thankfully, Angus' explanation is as short as it is incomprehensible.</p><p>"Right," the blond man says, shedding a pair of paint-flecked floral gardening gloves with one fingertip missing. "Come on," he says to Sherlock, wiping his hands onto a plaid cloth handkerchief he digs out from a jeans pocket.</p><p>Soon, Sherlock finds himself in the man's barebones but clean kitchen, his arm being gingerly unwrapped. Arranged onto the kitchen table is a suturing kit, a bottle of antiseptic solution, disposable needles still in their factory packaging, a vial of lidocaine and other very professional-looking medical supplies.</p><p>Angus has been offered a shot of whisky which he'd accepted with enthusiasm and taken to the garden. <em>What sort of medic or doctor would give alcohol to a man transporting a patient?</em></p><p>"Didn't catch a name," Sherlock says. He sounds a bit hoarse in his own ears, and he looks at his host instead of the rather graphic sight of the wound with its surrounding skin stained with dark, congealed blood. It has stopped bleeding, but the splinter is still stuck in.</p><p>"Sorry. Guess I'm used to everyone knowing everyone around here outside of the tourist season. I'm John."</p><p>He doesn't ask for his patient's name. <em>Perhaps his role in delivering medical care is informal, and he doesn't worry about record-keeping and such</em>, Sherlock wonders. His accent is hard to place: there is an undertone of northern Scottish influence there, but clearly he has been schooled elsewhere, most likely somewhere in West Midlands. Sherlock has always had a penchant for the Scottish accent, especially its defiant R's which linger like an unwanted guest in the doorway, insistent they haven't yet finished their story. Clearly not upper class, but well-educated. His posture and the way he'd reacted to the sudden incursion of visitors spells out military. Sherlock is quite certain, in hindsight, that one of the words Angus had used earlier is 'doctor'. <em>Army doctor. Here. Why?</em></p><p>"Retired?" Sherlock suggests, though the man's age says otherwise. It's a good technique to get people to talk to make potentially slightly insulting claims which they'll want to correct.</p><p>John is washing his hands — the house has electricity and running water. Sherlock makes note of the rehearsed, sharp movements — obviously a well-honed, automatic ritual of hand disinfection. <em>Army surgeon</em>.</p><p>"From the armed forces, yes. I work at the clinic on Gill Pier three days a week. Got to decide on my hours since I'm the only one they found to take the posting."</p><p>"The clinic's NHS?"</p><p>John gives him a quick smile before donning a pair of disposable medical-grade nitrile gloves and unveiling the wound. "Yeah. Not a very big market here for the private sector, is there?"</p><p>After taking a seat again next to Sherlock, whose arm is now supported by a rolled-up towel on another fresh towel, John injects the edges of the wound with lidocaine. He doesn't wait long for it to take effect before he starts cleaning the wound with saline-soaked wads of gauze.</p><p>While the man works, Sherlock studies what he can see of the interior of the house. No one would claim that much effort has been put into making sure that the furniture fits together aesthetically, but every piece is of good quality. There is a late-model cathode ray tube television in the corner and a radio on a windowsill. No dead flies so clearly, this John cleans his house, unlike whoever had dwelled in the one Sherlock has to endure. There are medical textbooks on a low shelf in the sitting room corner. Mostly empty whisky bottles sit in plain sight in the kitchen. Either John doesn't care what people think about his drinking, or those bottles were collected by a previous owner. <em>But why would John keep them around?</em>Sherlock takes in the shadows under the man's eyes, the slight puffiness to his eyelids and the glistening skin on his nose. They are signs that John is the likeliest candidate to have consumed all that whisky. <em>Signs of a festering daily hangover.</em></p><p>"Shouldn't you be asking questions? My name, allergies, how this happened?" Sherlock suggests.</p><p>John's mouth curves into a secretive line that flirts with a smile but doesn't quite commit. "Those questions are a luxury one has no time for where I've mostly practiced. I assume that if you were allergic to lidocaine, you would have told me. This happened chopping firewood, I assume?"</p><p><em>He's at least half clever, this John</em>. "You won't bother writing up patient records, then?"</p><p>"Do you care about that?"</p><p>"I really don't."</p><p>"Angus says you live in that rickety thing by the bay. The old Drever house."</p><p>"<em>Old</em> <em>house</em> is a generous description. You make it sound as though it's in any condition for human habitation. I assure you that it's not."</p><p>"Electricity?"</p><p>"Not connected to the network, but there is a generator. No fuel, though. With my recent luck, rats have probably eaten through the wiring. I just arrived," he explains. This John probably knows as well as Angus does when the Drever house has been occupied last.</p><p>"You've got water?" John asks. "I have a large spare jug I could lend you, unless Angus is sorting you out."</p><p>"He gave me a small plastic tank, which I'll need to fill soon. How the hell did you understand what he was saying?"</p><p>"It takes a bit of practice, but you'll get there," John promises. With a pair of surgical forceps, he pulls out the splinter and quickly presses a sterile gauze into the wound, which starts to bleed again.</p><p>This brings on a sudden wave of nausea which must be plain on Sherlock's face because John then asks if he needs to lie down.</p><p>Sherlock shakes his head. In terms of pain, he's had worse. Much worse. And that time, he didn't have the luxury of a doctor to tend to his injuries.</p><p>He'd been assisting Mycroft with some MI6 nonsense again. The agency had extracted three relatively high-ranking Russian military operatives from the war zone in Sevastopol after they had leaked information that the Russia never even intended to respect the Kharkiv pact between the Federation and Ukraine concerning the control of Crimea. Now, someone was hunting them down one by one, and Mycroft had told Sherlock he needed an outsider in finding a mole in the MI6 ranks since someone was obviously tipping off their opponents regarding the agency's moves. When a fourth defector — a Russian spook stationed in London — materialised with information and concrete proof of a larger, secret pact between Russia and its former states regarding the seizure and division of several Ukrainian territories beyond just Crimea due to their natural resources, protecting the man became a priority. In the process, MI6 caught wind of an operation seeking to take down all the agency operatives connected to the case to prevent details of the so-called Glezyieve tapes coming to light. Sherlock found his own name on that list and barely escaped a kidnapping attempt, which would have likely resulted in a well-concealed murder. He'd broken several ribs and his ankle in the process and was in agony by the time he was escorted to a safehouse.</p><p>The agent accompanying him was none other than Victor. He was no medic, and his first priority was securing the premises and strapping Sherlock into a lightweight, bulletproof vest. Victor had pulled the straps so tight that Sherlock had yelped from pain. After they received the all-clear six hours later, Victor had helped him out of his vest, out of his shirt, and danced his fingers down Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock has never liked a very gentle touch; it makes his skin crawl, but with Victor it was either that when he assumed Sherlock needed to be treated like a frightened ewe, or too rough when he got carried away. "<em>That's the spell you put on me</em>," he joked to Sherlock, "<em>I get so carried away when I'm with you</em>".</p><p>If Sherlock was honest with himself, what he would have preferred was for Victor to be more <em>present</em>, not carried away.</p><p>"<em>You haven't been coughing up or pissing blood, have you?</em>" Victor asked him in bed afterwards.</p><p>"<em>Your bedside manner is terrible</em>," Sherlock snapped in response. It had all happened so quickly — well, he'd wanted Victor for some time before that, but he'd never expected it to happen and certainly not… <em>What had I even expected or wanted, really?</em> He still doesn't know.</p><p>"<em>At least you're not complaining about my in-bed manner. I'm not a doctor, am I?</em>" Victor had protested with a laugh.</p><p>John Watson, however, is. And somehow, he knows exactly how to arrange Sherlock's limb gently but firmly in whatever position is needed in order to suture the wound. Despite the lidocaine, the whole arm has begun to smart. John gives him a glass of water before moving on to dressing the arm.</p><p>John doesn't speak much while he works, and his silence, not oppressive or expectant, gives space for Sherlock's thoughts. This John has a distinct, memorably presence, but it leaves room for others.</p><p>Unlike Victor, who had crowded Sherlock in the kitchen later that night in the safe house from which they could have already left.</p><p>"<em>Hurts, doesn't it</em>?" Victor asked him. "<em>The ribs</em>."</p><p>Sherlock had bit his lip and defiantly faced the MI6 agent's gaze. There was curiosity there — the same burning curiosity with which he'd regarded Sherlock in his brother's house when they'd first met. Victor hadn't let him out of his sight, which was understandable since protecting Sherlock was his assignment, but there was something particularly relentless about his scrutiny. It was a hunger Sherlock could recognise but had not expected in these circumstances. A passion he'd hoped for but was not equipped to handle.</p><p>Victor <em>wanted</em> him, and that made for an intriguing power play in <em>theory</em>. In reality, Sherlock always felt like he was one step behind. Perched on the kitchen table because he'd been too restless to pick a chair, Sherlock had forced himself not to squirm or retreat when Victor shifted to stand between his legs. Damn his body for responding so readily, so greedily. He wanted more of what they'd just done, wanted it <em>different</em>, wanted it in a way where he would feel involved and equal.</p><p>"<em>You want something for it?</em>" Victor asked Sherlock after a long pause, one which seemed to gauge whether a secret could be safely shared.</p><p>"<em>That would be appreciated</em>," Sherlock had replied.</p><p>He had expected some brainless pickup line involving the word "distraction", but instead Victor had stepped back, then presented to Sherlock two tablets of Vicodin and two lines of cocaine.</p><p>The Vicodin was all for Sherlock, the lines for the both of them. He had no idea how much Victor was using daily at that point. Though Sherlock can't be certain, he'd always been convinced that Victor had no master plan of seducing him that night. It simply happened, or perhaps he just wants to believe so. He doesn't know why Victor had been the one chosen as his protective detail inside the house. He hadn't asked. Judging by Mycroft's reaction to their affair and Victor's death, Big Brother had nothing to do with it and hadn't shoved Victor into his arms. He seemed to have more regrets about the whole thing than Sherlock does.</p><p><em>"His cocaine habit endangered his entire unit", </em>Mycroft had told him after Victor's death. "<em>Nobody deceives like an addict, and it appears that applies to themselves, too. Don't fool yourself by thinking he loved you. You were just one of the bad habits detrimental to his career he cultivated</em>."</p><p>"––your thoughts?" John asks him, his voice breaking Sherlock out of his reverie.</p><p>He blinks back into the present. "Excuse me?" </p><p>"You seemed very far away just now, so I said: penny for your thoughts. "</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Not even I would waste that much money on them.</p><p>"How's your tetanus status, then?"</p><p>"I had a booster last year."</p><p>"You get into scuffles with logs a lot, then?"</p><p>"In my line of duty, injuries are a fact of life." He may not be a soldier or an MI6 agent, but the statement still applies.</p><p>"And what line of duty is that?"</p><p>Sherlock reminds himself that he should be laying low. Physicians are generally trustworthy, but only generally. They certainly make for hard serial killers to catch since they have methods available to them hard to prove and rarely suspected. <em>Who is this John?</em></p><p>"If I told you…" Sherlock jokes, and schools what he hopes is a disarming smile on his features.</p><p>"You won't be chopping any more wood with that arm for a while. Have you got enough for the stove?" John asks, sounding genuinely concerned. "I can give you some, but I don't think you can fit a lot into the sidecar."</p><p>
  <em>Doctor. Willing, even habitual caretaker of others' needs. Soldier. Lives like a hermit. How does that all fit together?</em>
</p><p>"There's not a lot," Sherlock admits. "That applies to everything: food, water, firewood."</p><p>John is blatantly amused. "So you just… appeared one day at the Drever place without any supplies? Fell down from a plane? Got sneezed out by a passing whale?"</p><p>"I assure you I'm as surprised by this turn of events as you are."</p><p>"I could use a first name. I have to call you something," John decides. "John Watson," he adds, offering his hand.</p><p>Sherlock takes it, mind churning for a suitable alias. <em>Mycroft? Good Lord, no</em>. "William Vernet." His mother's maiden name will have to do.</p><p>John's hand is warm, smaller than Sherlock's, and his grip is as firm as his touch had been when he'd stitched Sherlock back together. "Good to meet you, William."</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. In Which Everyone Has Secrets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What follows is an interrogation. This John Watson seems to have deduced that Sherlock needs all the help he can get to manage in his new residence and starts going through a list of things he thinks are needed for that. Have you got this, have you got that…<em> Has John seen this before: someone suddenly appearing in the Drever house without necessities, and Angus failing to provide even though he's hired to do so?</em></p><p>Sherlock wonders of MI6 even knows Angus may not be up to the task, if he ever even was. <em>Perhaps agents get sent here so rarely, or perhaps with more time to gather supplies, or for such a short period of time, and they're so happy to get out that they don't care about ruffling feathers about the house's shoddy upkeep?</em></p><p>Sherlock is grateful to have someone to talk to who still has their wits intact. It's hard to gauge what Angus had been like even before the stroke, and Sherlock can't imagine the old geezer would have agreed to spending time away from the island for rehab. <em>His limbs seem to work well enough; perhaps only his speech was affected</em>. John's enthusiasm to help could even be construed as suspicious, but Sherlock can't exactly ask the man if he's works for MI6, too — if he doesn't, then Sherlock's cover would be blown.</p><p>"You're not from around here, are you?" John asks, watching Sherlock button up his coat to cover his bare torso.</p><p>"London," Sherlock says. <em>That doesn't give anything away, does it?</em> Besides, Sherlock isn't even an MI6 agent, and after this travesty of a safehouse he's never ever going to accept an assignment from Mycroft. Not even if big brother threatens to waterboard him. Or threaten to take away his violin, a family heirloom Mycroft likes to pretend he allows graciously Sherlock to possess. <em>Nobody else in the damned family even knows how to play it</em>.</p><p>"I can give you some fuel if Angus hasn't got any to spare, so that you can get that generator going," John suggests. "Is there a fridge?"</p><p>"Yes, though I've no idea how long it's been without power. It's one of those old freon monstrosities." Sherlock hadn't dared to open its door, fearing what might lurk inside if the previous tenants have just left without emptying it. He is not squeamish, and sometimes stores forensic experiments in his own at home, but what's in this fridge won't be his leftovers or mould cultures.</p><p>"Must mean you don't have any perishable food, either?" John points out.</p><p>"I don't have much food of any kind left," Sherlock admits. Food has never rated very high on his priority list, and now that the nausea from the blood loss and the adrenaline are dissipating, he realises he should be getting hungry. It's just that anxiety has always decimated his appetite. Not having eaten properly in days is probably beginning to drag his mood down but stuck in this hellhole, it would be down in the dumps, anyway. <em>I'd give a kingdom for a single line. If I had to, I'd even snort it from that bloody levitating lid in the outhouse.</em></p><p>"I've something I was planning to cook for lunch," John says after a pause. "Could give you a lift to the village after to get some supplies? I'll have a word with Angus," John decides without even waiting for Sherlock's response.</p><p>Sherlock is relieved to remember he'd stuffed the money from the plastic bag into the breast pocket of his coat. Accepting a ride from a stranger <em>and</em> asking them to cover his purchases would be too mortifying. Still, he feels quite whiplashed, even steamrollered by this doctor who he'd only sought out because he needed a wound sutured. This John Watson seems to be appointing himself as some sort of a janitor. <em>Helper. Saviour?</em></p><p>Sherlock can hardly afford to turn down the offer, and why should he? He has questions about this island and trying to ask Angus will just lead to mutual confusion. He's keen to see what passes for a village, and to get to make some decisions about what to wear and what to eat.</p><p> </p><p>John goes outside to talk to Angus. From the hall window, Sherlock watches him wave off the old man as he starts the motorcycle and skids off. Sherlock wanders out of the house and joins John by the front steps because it had felt awkward being inside without the lord of the house.</p><p>"Not many people to talk to out here," John muses as they stand side by side by the garden gate, watching Angus Ardle get smaller and smaller on the horizon.</p><p>He's not looking at Sherlock, who wonders if John is talking about himself, Angus, or perhaps all three of them. "You work in the village, then? I assume there are people to talk to there," Sherlock suggests. he never really seeks people out for company, and something tells him John rarely does, either. Why else would an army doctor choose to live here?</p><p>John is squinting in the sunlight as he tucks his hand into the pockets of his worn jeans. "I don't go there for company, no." He sounds wistful, as if that isn't by his choice.</p><p>Victor hadn't wanted company, either. At least not Sherlock's company, not often. When he came by, he seemed to want to just exist within the confines of the same space when they weren't having sex instead of doing anything together. That night, when they'd ended up in bed for the first time, they'd been lying quietly afterwards, waiting for the sweat to cool off their naked bodies, when Victor had got a text. He evacuated his compact, muscular body off the mattress with the efficiency of someone who's used to rude awakenings and began pulling clothing items on in the manner of a man who never picks them out based on looks, just functionality. Sherlock watched him, rapt fascination with the visuals flirting with disappointment and unease. He hadn't known what to expect after sex, not with Victor. He should have known there wouldn't be anything resembling cuddling, and especially not any discussion of what they'd just done. He didn't know Victor well enough yet for such predictions, and he comforted himself with the fact that whenever his occasional one-night companions had got emotional or clingy afterwards, he'd felt trapped and sickened. Victor is the only one with whom he had ever hoped for something like that.</p><p>"<em>Danger's out. Met ARV and MASTS teams have apprehended the targets we had intel on</em>," Victor announced, strapping his armpit holster back on.</p><p>"<em>Was that Mycroft? The text?</em>" Sherlock asked; Victor didn't respond. He never responded to questions about his work. He didn't even tell Sherlock how he was supposed to get back home or where that safe house even was. Not that Sherlock needed the address; he'd deduced where he'd been taken within a margin of three blocks.</p><p>"<em>Be seeing you around, Sherlock Holmes</em>," Victor said, grabbing his service weapon from the bedside cabinet. It slid into the holster just as he'd slid into Sherlock's body. Unceremoniously. With practiced moves. Without sentiment.</p><p>Once alone in the bedroom, Sherlock had wondered if Victor ever took to bed any of the other people he got assigned to protect, and then hated himself for wanting to feel special, somehow. For wanting to be looked at the way Victor had looked at him earlier that night — as though every inch of him held some barely concealed fascination.</p><p>The way John Watson looking at him right now. It makes Sherlock flinch back into the present where he's standing in the garden being licked by sunlight that can't really counter the effect of the biting wind. He clears his throat, flustered.</p><p>"So, you just do that, then, disappear into your head?" John asks, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips but not quite breaking through fully.</p><p>"I was just remembering something," Sherlock says what he hopes is a nonchalant tone that will discourage further scrutiny.</p><p>Something about that brings on a silence. John looks as though the words have sobered him up, and he squints towards the edge of the water before speaking again. "The people who come and go in your house, well, they never stay long and don't seem to like company all that much, either."</p><p>John has his suspicions, then.</p><p>And he can keep them for now.</p><p>Sherlock scrambles to come up with a new topic of conversation, but John gets there first, surprising him by suggesting Sherlock could have a rest before the meal since he still looks so pale and tired.</p><p>Sherlock had spotted a neatly made bed — <em>hospital corners</em> — covered with an old, lacy bedspread. He has no desire to lie down in it: other people's bedrooms are their domain, their territory. Sherlock suspects he'd feel as restless and awkward there as he feels when forced to interact with people when he doesn't have a clear mission of needing to glean information from them.</p><p>He opens his mouth to protest, but what comes out is a yawn.</p><p>John chuckles a bit. "I guess that's a yes."</p><p>Sherlock has always detested social convention, things people say because they're expected to, phrases that carry little data, ones that serve nothing but a contractual purpose between humans. He knows something like that is expected right now, but saying <em>thank you</em> would just underline his predicament, emphasise how at the mercy of others' charity he is right now. He snaps his teeth together and says nothing. <em>If John Watson wants to help me, it's on him. His choice.</em></p><p>He wonders idly who cuts John's hair: the style is appalling. <em>Clearly not a professional job.</em> Wind-tousled, it looks almost passable but combed down, it would make the man look older than his years. John's eyes are kind, but with something concealed there, something evasive if Sherlock meets his gaze for too long.</p><p>"You need a shirt," John decides. Instead of asking, it sounds like he's giving orders.</p><p>Sherlock cannot fathom why he wants to do exactly what he's told by this man. <em>Military</em>, Sherlock reminds himself. <em>He doesn't expect protest; must be an officer. </em></p><p>They re-enter the house at John's invitation, after which he goes to the bedroom only to emerge moments later with a clean but worn Royal Army Medical Corps T-shirt. "Not very fancy, but it should fit you. It's washed," he promises. "I don’t think I have any trousers in your size. Maybe we can find something at the thrift shop."</p><p>After having to wear that awful jumper owned by God-knows-who, Sherlock wouldn't really mind wearing John Watson's clothes even if they came straight from the laundry basket.</p><p>After Sherlock has taken off his coat and felt oddly exposed while slipping on the T-shirt under John's watchful gaze, John grabs an orange-and-blue tartan throw from a worn sofa in the sitting room and tosses it at Sherlock. "Have a kip. I still need to gut the fish."</p><p>Sherlock clings to the throw like a lifeline. After being half-naked for most of his time inside the house, it feels good to have such a shield. That's how he thinks of his coat when he's in London.</p><p>"It'll be just some fish, potatoes and dill," John says, vacillating with his hand perched on the door handle to the kitchen. "Nothing fancy," he adds apologetically, as though expecting Sherlock to only eat chateaubriand when in London.</p><p>Sherlock is standing between him and the open bedroom door, wringing the skin on his arm under the bundle of the throw since he does not know what he's supposed to say or do. Does John want his explicit consent for serving him lunch, or is silence enough?</p><p>"Thank you," he finally says, weaving politeness into his tone. "I'm sure it'll be delicious."</p><p>What he really wants to say is <em>why are you doing all this?</em></p><p>John leaves him alone in the sitting room, and Sherlock now has the choice of more awkward conversation regarding why he hasn't taken John up on the offer of his bed or succumbing to the sudden desire to be horizontal. This is the first moment during his time on the island that he doesn't have to worry about everything alone. He's warm, he's got a fresh if unsightly shirt, there's going to be food, and there's company who knows where and how he can procure what he needs.</p><p>He'll just close his eyes for a moment. Just for a moment, though, not long enough to add to the disgusting tally of gratitude social rules dictate he should be amassing towards Doctor John Watson.</p><p> </p><p>______________</p><p> </p><p><br/>
When he wakes up, the sun has shifted to a position that signals afternoon. He curses; he'd only meant to have a nap, not sleep for hours. <em>What must John think of me?</em></p><p>The bed has been pushed side-first against the wall with a window. On the opposite wall hangs an enlarged old photograph of a man with a pipe and a worn flat cap pulling a large, old-fashioned fishing net into a small boat. He's looking at the camera with a smile, and his features much resemble John's. <em>Grandfather?</em></p><p>Sherlock's ankles feel stiff and he discovers his neck has a crick when he plants his sock-clad soles on the draughty floor. He must've slept like the dead.</p><p>He wraps the throw he'd used as a blanket around his shoulders and pads to the sitting room. John is there, mending a woollen sock with grey thread. He looks up.</p><p>"Why didn't you wake me up?" Sherlock chides.</p><p>"You looked like you needed the rest. Shoe size?" John is eyeing Sherlock's leather oxfords with a mixture of confusion and amusement.</p><p>"Ten."</p><p>"I've got a pair of wellies that should do, a bit big maybe, but you can always put on two pairs of these." He scrutinises his woollen sock -clad fist; he'd shoved his hand in to make it easier to repair a hole in the heel.</p><p>"Beggars can't be choosers," Sherlock admits and drops into the chair opposite. There are four chairs around the small table in the corner of the sitting room next to the old television. Sherlock spots an old record played on a side table, some worn books in a small cabinet. All of it looks older than John. When he moved here from wherever he went to school and trainer as a doctor and served, he hadn't brought much with him. <em>Granted, it's a hassle to transport things to a remote island, but why so little?</em></p><p>"Thrift shop's closed now, since it's only open in the mornings, but Anne who runs in does the afternoon tea at the community centre; I'm sure she'll lend us the keys if we stop by there."</p><p>Sherlock can't muster any excitement for rummaging through islander hand-me-downs. "Doesn't anyone sell new clothes?"</p><p>"The tourist shop, but it's just cardigans and jumpers and socks and such." John glances at Sherlock's trousers. "Best get something you don't mind getting wet and dirty before we take on any repairs at your place."</p><p><em>Who's 'we'?</em> Sherlock wonders smugly but manages to keep his expression neutral. What does excite him is the prospect of seeing the village with John. Afternoon tea, perhaps with a slice of cake, sounds like heaven.</p><p>There are more whisky bottles in the sitting room, but these serve a purpose: John has stuck candles into them. <em>Places like this must be prone to power-outs</em>. <em>Does he not hide the bottles because he's not embarrassed about them, or because he never gets visitors?</em></p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. In Which Sherlock Struggles With The Selection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Talking. Isn't that what people customarily do in cars?</em> wonders Sherlock as John's steers them away from the rugged coast towards the interior of Westray. <em>But what if I ask the wrong thing?</em> That would mean having to endure an awkward silence until they’ve arrived at their destination. <em>What if I start a conversation unsuited for the time frame we have, and it gets cut off abruptly as we park and must deal with locals?</em></p><p>He doesn't want to deal with locals, just John. Perhaps he should be sterner in reminding himself that this outing is for a purpose, not for fun. <em>I need John's help, that's all</em>. The plate of potatoes and salmon with a simple butter-and-dill sauce John had warmed up for him has cleared his thinking, made him less impulsive. Seeing the man's microwave felt like watching science fiction after the medieval shack in which Sherlock is sequestered. He doesn't want to go back there, but he’s stayed at worse places. Granted, the ability to sever the connection between his bleak surroundings and the interior of his mind was only ever a syringe away during those instances. No such luck this time.</p><p>John had grabbed a handwritten list from the kitchen just before they'd left. <em>Grocery list</em>, Sherlock had deduced, relieved that his tally of gratitude could now be that much smaller since John needs to buy things as well. <em>He wouldn't drive to Pierowall just for me</em>, Sherlock tells himself. <em>Now, it's just a neighbourly thing to do, instead of an oddly intense desire to help which warrants further analysis.</em></p><p>They're both wearing wellingtons, although John's ankle-height ones are closer to jodhpur shoes. His wardrobe in its entirety seems to consist of old, practical, well-made pieces — the sort an islander might want to buy since access to shops are infrequent. Plaid shirts, jeans, the odd tweed piece, a wax coat… Sherlock had glanced into an old wardrobe in the bedroom; John must have fetched the T-shirt Sherlock is now wearing from there.</p><p>"Was the fish local?" he asks, realising the silence has stretched for a while, though not uncomfortably.</p><p>"Doesn't get more local than that," John confirms, "third wild salmon I've caught this month, which is unusual. More often you get those farmed ones that have escaped their pens."</p><p>John brakes gently to allow the last of a flock of sheep to cross the road. The interior is farmland — small patches which used to feed a family each, now mostly for sheep. Ahead of them, down a low hill, Sherlock can see the road getting wider and houses huddled closer together.</p><p>"You fish?" Sherlock asks. Finally, there is an opening for asking more about John. <em>Best stick to simple topics since I cannot offer as much information in return</em>.</p><p>"Mostly I buy stuff off the fishermen at Gill Pier, but yeah, I lay the occasional net when I feel like it. You can get really good crab meat here, too, there's even a cannery."</p><p>It seems unlikely that John could have learned to fish on his own. He hasn't lived here all his life, judging by the accent, so it's likeliest that someone taught him at an earlier age.</p><p>They pass a school. Sherlock assumes it's the only one on the island. John had told him there are only about 600 residents plus roughly a hundred living on the neighbouring Papa Westray. "Did you go here?" he asks, cocking his head towards the playground.</p><p>John glances at him. "For a while, yeah."</p><p>"Medical school?"</p><p>"Edinburgh."</p><p>"Ah." <em>Because it was close, because it required little funds — or both? Or neither?</em> Sherlock knows that Scots can study there practically without tuition fees, whereas students from England or Wales would be charged with those — smaller than in most English universities, though. He doesn't know what the rules are for that free education — had John lived here long enough to quality?</p><p>"Where'd you go, then, for uni?" John asks, downshifting as they arrive in a lower speed zone.</p><p>"Bold to assume I did."</p><p>"Not really," John grins. "The way you dress, and talk… whatever country lord sired you would not have let you skip that bit. I bet there's a country pile somewhere."</p><p><em>John is not entirely unobservant, then. </em>The man's words and tone are an odd mix of teasing and complimentary, and the boldness with which they're spoken to a near-stranger is invigorating. Clearly, John Watson does not bow down to the upper classes. Sherlock wonders what he'd make of Mycroft and decides he would bring crisps to the spectacle.</p><p>"You'd be disappointed to see Sherrinford — it's hardly Chequers. Just a house," he assures John, painfully aware that there is still a gaping, smarting difference between the man's house and his childhood home in Sussex. Two years ago, Mycroft had hired some burnout City boy to turn it into a posh bed-and-breakfast. He'd promised Sherlock a permanent <em>discount</em>.</p><p>"Cambridge," Sherlock says, annoyed at the slight embarrassment which has risen from confirming John's stereotypical assumptions. "It's the best chemistry department in the country."</p><p>"You're a chemist, then?"</p><p>"No, though I do make use of that education in my line of work." <em>If John googles 'William' and 'detective' and 'chemistry' and 'London', will he find me?</em> "I'm a private detective."</p><p>He detests that term since it's so… common, but googling 'consulting detective' would certainly lead to his real name and identity.</p><p>"Oh," John says.</p><p>It's hard to interpret. "Oh, as in…?"</p><p>"Interesting, I guess. Are you looking to expand your business, then?"</p><p>Sherlock lets his gaze roam around the small family houses and back gardens they are passing. The sea has returned to view — a concrete pier in the centre of the village is now visible, with fishing boats moored by it. The sun is setting, gilding the low waves. This side of the island must be sheltered from the wind, making it ideal for a settlement. "If there's crime here, I doubt it's very interesting — or difficult to solve."</p><p>John laughs. "Don't judge. Who knows, maybe this place is a hothouse of international human trafficking or something."</p><p>Sherlock opens his mouth to point out that human trafficking is, by definition, international, but decides against it. He has learned that people dislike being corrected. They'd rather be ignorant than endure the embarrassment required to receive the proper facts. <em>Idiots</em>.</p><p>John starts introducing things in the village as they turn from the street into the car park behind the buildings on the pier. "This is Gill Pier. The surgery's the first building on the right — used to be the customs office. Best sea views any GP could have, I guarantee. Heritage Centre and the Community Centre are over there, and Peter Miller's shop should have what we need in terms of food. The Wheeling Steen Gallery's got some fantastic photos on display and for sale. Three kirks on the island if you go for that sort of thing."</p><p>Sherlock is aware the Scots call churches "kirks" and, considering the heavy Viking influence on these lands, he's not surprised to find the term here, too. There are similar words in modern Nordic languages. "Do you?"</p><p>John's lips tighten. "No. Old kirk's got Sunday services; they're Church of Scotland, I think."</p><p>"I'm an atheist."</p><p>"Right." John checks his watch. "I don't suppose you're hungry after polishing up that plate?"</p><p>"No, not as such."</p><p>"We could just have some tea, then. Groatie Buckie's not open today, so we might as well go see if we can borrow that key."</p><p>Sherlock has no idea what a 'groatie buckie' is, but it does not sound very enticing. John marches into the community centre and talks to the woman he had mentioned earlier. Sherlock has already forgotten her name, which is unusual for him — usually he files such things in the Mind Palace, the archives there ready to be consulted quickly. He's getting rusty in this place with nothing but the flight patterns of birds to deduce.</p><p>The thrift shop is just a side room in a crafts shop, but Sherlock manages to find a passable pair of jeans, a couple of T-shirts and a less scratchy jumper. They grab a few pairs of tennis socks and underwear from the shop selection and leave money on the counter before locking up. The grocery store sells canisters and has a fuel station; they buy enough for Sherlock to run the generator for at least a few days. He picks up a few spare bulbs just in case — it would be depressing to find out that the lights won't turn on when he finally has electricity. He grabs a set of cotton sheets to replace the old, grotty ones, as well as a toothbrush and paste. The haircare selection at the store leaves a lot to be desired.</p><p>"Doesn't anyone have curly hair in this Godforsaken place?" he mutters, picking up products one by one and dismissing them.</p><p>"Not like yours they don't," John says. "I mean, you must get it… I don't know, sorted out regularly."</p><p>"Is there even a barber here or do you lot just put a bowl on your head and scissor around the rim?" Sherlock asks, frustrated.</p><p>"Oi!" John protests and grabs a peaked cap with the name <em>Westray</em> embroidered on it, shoving it onto Sherlock's head. "Obviously practicality means nothing in London, but here we go for that first, fancy hairdos second."</p><p>Sherlock removes the hat and puts it back on the shelf, disgruntlement crinkling up his features. <em>What the hell is taking Mycroft so long?</em> He can't even call his brother, unless he fancies a lecture on compromising his hideout. As loathe as Sherlock is to praise the man ever, Mycroft Holmes is very good at what he does, which is playing chess with people as pawns in the intelligence circles.</p><p>
  <em>Need a coup? Call Mycroft Holmes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Need a captured agent retrieved from a country the CIA doesn't even have proper satellite photos of? Call Mycroft Holmes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Need to broker a deal between two different organised crime syndicates, two government intelligence services and one oligarch? Call Mycroft; just don't expect it to be cheap in terms of what favours he'll expect from you.</em>
</p><p>Sherlock stifles a groan as they wander through the dairy section, wondering how many sickening favours of prostituting his intellect will be required to compensate for the ongoing salvage operation of both their hides. He hopes Mycroft has learned something from losing one of his best agents, assuming he'd had a role in how things went during Victor's final mission. Sherlock has never asked; he'd been reeling too hard, too unmoored by the revelations of those first days after he'd received the news. The devastation was relentless, and he needed to hide it all because the last thing he wanted was to give Mycroft the satisfaction of told-you-so.</p><p>"<em>You may want to live that way, pushing everyone out of your life just so you can pretend to live up to some pretentious ideal the rest of us are too weak to reach for</em>," Sherlock had told his uninvited guest of a brother on the day of the funeral he hadn't even known about, "<em>but one day you’ll realise that the hunger you’ve felt all your life can’t be sated with cake. It’s not indigestion, it’s loneliness.” </em></p><p>"<em>He pushed you away</em>," Mycroft had reminded him in that disgustingly calm, superior tone he always uses with Sherlock. It’s the sort of tone one would use with children. "<em>He pushed you away over, and over again, only to tug you back in when that precise weakness took over. And you let him</em>."<br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Elldotsee provided some beta help with this chapter because this evening my brain was the equivalent of an overheated engine. Dangling over a cliff. On the Moon.</p><p>I've taken some liberties with the distances on Westray; Pierowall is actually inconveniently close to where John and Sherlock's houses are located for the purposes of this chapter. Groatie Buckie is a sandwich shop &amp; cafe on Westray. I've no idea what the name means.</p><p>In Icelandic, church is "kirkja". In Norwegian, it's "kirke" and in Swedish, "kyrka". Don't ask the Finns; the closest they ever got to the Vikings was being pillaged by them. (They do say "kirkko" but altogether their language has nothing to do with the rest of the Nordic ones. Poor proto-Finns were probably headed elsewhere but took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up where nobody understands a word they say.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. In Which Edward The Abdicator Escapes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The next morning, Sherlock finds waking up marginally less miserable than expected. He has clean sheets, though not in the sort of thread count to which he's accustomed. He has enough power from the generator to power up a radio, two ceiling bulbs and the fridge, and the hunger he feels this morning is much milder than the gouging, ravenous beast of his first days on the island. The plate John had given him of potatoes and fish had been followed by tea and fresh scones at the community centre, a bag of crisps shared with John on the drive back, and just before going to bed he'd had two slices of local bread with luxurious yellow, salty butter that had made him think of childhood breakfasts, fighting with Mycroft over the last, warm bits of Irish soda bread their cook made on weekends.</p><p>Not all of the improvements in his mood yesterday can be chalked up to acquiring sustenance and improving his living arrangements. After struggling alone for the first few days on this barren rock, it was nice to have company. The only downside is that Sherlock has always loathed feeling indebted to someone. Years of Mycroft's games of being blackmailed for brotherly favours — for access to things Sherlock should be allowed access to anyway, such as his trust fund — has soured him to being dependent in any way on others. And that includes the sort of emotional dependence people enter into so willingly in relationships.</p><p><em>Nothing but trouble</em>.</p><p>Yesterday, in John's company, he'd oscillated between letting himself enjoy the attention of another person and berating himself for fawning over nothing but a bit of kindness. John is a soldier and a doctor. <em>Serve and assist</em>. <em>Heal and protect</em>. It must be in John's nature not to count favours but to consider it an integral part of who he is to help others.</p><p>"<em>Think nothing of it</em>," John had said with a smile when Sherlock had stammered out a bastard child of expressed gratitude and an apology for inconveniencing the man. Sherlock wouldn't be able to do as John had told him, because he always overthinks things.</p><p>He pries his eyes open and pushes aside the curtain, expecting the uninspiring and already tediously familiar sight of the sea, perhaps with some gulls and the glum, low-hanging clouds which seem to embrace the island habitually. The sight as he squints through the old glass meets his pathetically low expectations, with the additional bonus of a sheep with a dog collar feasting on the taller grass growing by the well. Initially, Sherlock's still half-asleep brain accepts this sight as normal in this rural island setting, but eventually it's the dog collar that banishes the last dregs of sleep from his intellect.</p><p>He knocks on the window, and the sheep lifts its head with limp, half-chewed grass hanging out from between its teeth. The look it gives Sherlock is disinterested, perhaps even snidely superior. It's a ram, judging by the package Sherlock gets an eyeful of as the beast lifts a knee to get rid of a stomach itch. It acts like it owns the place, and its antics briefly remind Sherlock of another snidely superior ram hundreds of miles south in some London office, probably shifting around governments instead of helping his little brother out of this spot of trouble.</p><p><em>Clearly, this unit of sheep belongs to someone.</em> Sherlock gets dressed, laments the fact that an accessorised sheep is the most intellectually stimulating thing Westray has to offer, and decides to forgo tea until he has returned the beast to its rightful owner. He instantly thinks of John Watson — not because he assumes John has been hiding sheep in some shed when he visited, but because John might well know who the owner is.</p><p>It's domesticated; it doesn't protest one bit when Sherlock ties a bit of string to its old collar and begins leading it away from the delicacies of the overgrown back garden and towards the road. It follows him meekly until they're some thirty metres from John's house. That is where the ram stops, drops a load on the road, takes a few steps forward and then arranges itself primly into a cosy heap in the middle of the road. No amount of cajoling can get it to rise, and it's too heavy for Sherlock to lift. All he can do if leave it there and go bang on John's door.</p><p>"Good m—" John starts, looking baffled and delighted, if a bit suspicious.</p><p>Usually, people pick just one, but somehow, John is always a fascinating melange of not-quite-conflicting emotions.</p><p>"I've a ram problem."</p><p>"Um––"</p><p>Sherlock glances towards the road. The ram is still there, hooves tucked underneath its belly, eyes closed and lower jab drooping. Perhaps it'll start snoring soon. "<em>That</em>."</p><p>Realisation seems to dawn on John's features. Sherlock loathes it when other people know what's going on and he doesn't. "Well?" he demands, "Whose is it?"</p><p>"That's Edward The Abdicator. Must have broken out of its pen again."</p><p>"Edward the <em>what now</em>?"</p><p>John retreats into the house from the front steps, starts clattering around to find his shoes. "It used to belong to Angus' brother, who died a few years back. All the guy's sheep were sold, and they were taking them to the mainland for slaughter, but Angus, who'd not shown his face even though he’d been asked to come help out, appeared on the pier at the last moment, grabbed this one and took it home. Tav — Tavish Ardle, that is — named them all after some historical stuff; he was into that. Don't know why Herr Führer was an ewe, though. She had lambs every summer."</p><p>Sherlock blinks.</p><p>John snorts, closing the door behind him. He's got a length of coiled rope in his hand. "Don't know what Angus would use a ram for."</p><p>Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the dog collar. "Satanic bondage rituals?"</p><p>"Weird bunch, those Ardles," John says deadpan. "This one got named because it's always been keen on ladies. Wouldn't care about its own best interest when it chased them. Hence the name. The last time I heard it got out they found it trying to hump the Buchanan kids' pedalled toy tractor."</p><p>John ties the rope to its collar, and loops a length around its rump, which entices it to climb back to its feet. Lazily, it follows John to his car, but getting it hoisted into the backseat proves to be even more difficult than getting it to walk anywhere. It takes seven attempts before it's finally situated in the car, but the price to pay is that Sherlock slips in the muddy grass by the vehicle and ends up on his arse.</p><p>John stares — and bursts out laughing. After taking a moment to assess whether his ego is bruised enough to warrant a pout, Sherlock finds himself joining in.</p><p>He hasn't laughed like that once since arriving here. In fact, he can't remember laughing like that since… he can't remember.</p><p>They drive to the lighthouse which juts up like an ivory phallus out of a northwest headland. John says there are two small islands just off the shore inhabited by lots of birds, but they're not visible from the gravel path to the door since the headline cliffs are so high. Limestone formations which look like tidepools surround the lighthouse, but the water cannot have reached this high in hundreds of thousands of years. Soft moss grows on the limestone slabs with only the occasional small, low flower stem sticking out. The wind is harsh, and the violent breaking of waves creates a constant churning ambient sound somewhere below.</p><p>The lighthouse itself is not very high — it wouldn't need to be on such an elevated spot. The design is simple and looks not unlike a modern chapel. The light itself is housed in the dark grey metal top of the tower that looks like birdcage. A low, square 1-storey annexe must house the living quarters. There is a wall around what one might generously call a kitchen garden, and a fenced pen which Sherlock assumes is for the ram they coax out of the backseat. Sherlock knows nothing about sheep, but Edward looks rather smug about his adventure and about hitching a ride home.</p><p>Angus is outside, filling up the petrol tank of his motorcycle. He has fresh oil stains on his old, patched-up jeans, and Sherlock has no idea how he's not freezing to death in this wind wearing no coat, just a worn plaid flannel shirt tucked under suspenders. A pipe bobbles on his lip, but no smoke is being emitted. Perhaps its purpose right now is similar to how Sherlock fiddles often with the lighter in his pocket, even when he's trying to quit. It's something to keep some of his brain occupied while the rest tries to analyse the problem at hand.</p><p>"Oooh," Angus says, shaking his head when he spots John walking Edward the Escape Artist away from the car. "Neugh-err, that 'on. Them skert-folk hee wants."</p><p>Sherlock nods emphatically. He thinks he's picked up the word 'skirt', and assumes Angus is referring to the ram's penchant for the females of his species. "He was eating up my back garden. No romance on offer there."</p><p>"Ya ne'er know, do yer?" Angus says with a shrug and reaches out for the end of the rope which John offers him. Angus tsks at Edward, then starts for the pen.</p><p>John is biting his lip, looking out towards the sea. He seems uneasy, restless. "I better go. Want a ride back?"</p><p>"No, I'll walk. I've been wanting to see the place."</p><p>"It's a great view," John confirms.</p><p>"Thanks again," Sherlock says, and manages not to grit his teeth. "I hope Edward didn't make a mess of your back seat."</p><p>"It was a mess to begin with," John says. He opens his mouth again, then settles for a nod with his lips pinched tight as he climbs back in the driver’s seat.</p><p>Had he decided against such trite things as 'see you'? Does he abhor small talk as much as Sherlock does, or had it occurred to him that most phrases used when parting ways refer to a reunion, and he doesn't want that?</p><p><em>I'm over-analysing again</em>, Sherlock decides. They'd had a perfectly enjoyable time yesterday, and today has been <em>fun</em>. That's more than Sherlock can say about most of his days in London. Not even days with Victor could be summed up with such a word. <em>Mostly, it was just… complicated</em>.</p><p>Yesterday, he'd felt emboldened to ask some more personal questions from John in the car on their way back from Pierowall. He always answered, but succinctly, and Sherlock could sense the occasional hesitation even though he's rarely very good at reading people. Hesitation over the oddest things. John had volunteered the fact that he'd inherited the house from his father, but had skirted around the issues of when he had moved here. When asked, he'd admitted to having a sister, but had said nothing more on the issue even when Sherlock had volunteered some assorted gripings about his own singular sibling.</p><p>Trying to talk to John had felt like the tide: flowing closer, then receding. Right there but distant, with edges impossible to make out on the horizon. There had been these flashes of unbridled joy and rapport between them that had startled Sherlock in their bright suddenness, but he has no idea how to invite forth more of them. They're not friends. He'll be out of here soon, if all goes well. <em>I'm just bored and antsy to get back home, so my brain has chosen John Watson as its hamster wheel.</em></p><p>He's startled when Angus claps a gasoline-smelling palm on his shoulder. "London says er week," Angus declares.</p><p>"London? Has someone been in touch?"</p><p>Angus taps his nose conspiratorially. "River says er week, if yer lookee."</p><p><em>River?</em> Sherlock wonders, then realises Ardle must be referring to <em>River House</em>, the synonym for Vauxhall Cross, the MI6 headquarters. He wonders if Mycroft had made the call himself. Trying to decipher Angus' broken Scottish accent would prove a formidable exercise even for a master spook like Mycroft Holmes.</p><p>"<em>'If I'm lucky</em>'? What does that even mean?" Sherlock grumbles. Mycroft would be the first to say that luck does not factor into his work ethic.</p><p>Sherlock glances towards the pen where Edward The Abdicator is weltering in a tuft of browned grass.</p><p>Angus grabs his petrol canister and cocks his head towards the lighthouse. He makes for the front door but slows his steps, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock. "Tea'll bee reedy in a mo."</p><p>Sherlock remembers he's not had any yet today. "Don't mind if I do," he replies, sticks his hands in his coat pockets, and follows the lighthouse-keeper.<br/><br/><br/></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. In Which Sherlock Considers Birds And Other Flighty Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After a cup of tea with Angus, Sherlock declines what he suspects is an offer of a lift home, wanting to explore the surroundings of the lighthouse before walking back. The distance can't be more than a few kilometres, and it's a bright, sunny day — perfect for stretching one’s legs. Sherlock wouldn't describe the weather as warm, though perhaps for the islanders used to the salty northern wind that claws and bites at exposed skin, it might seem that way. Edward the Abdicator seems to be rather enjoying it; he’s standing with his nose to it, greyish white pelt on the top of his head quivering in the breeze. Sherlock gives him a nod as he walks past the pen, wondering if Angus has let it fall into disrepair purposely because he thinks the old ram deserves the chance to explore the island occasionally by escaping through one of the holes in the metal wiring. <em>Where does the ram thinks it’s going? Perhaps back to its old home at Angus’ brother’s farm?</em> Sherlock wonders.</p><p>They hadn't spoken much at tea, he and Angus. Sherlock had found himself appreciating the old man's capacity for amicable silence — why is it that most people seem to feel so ill at ease with themselves and others that they must fill conversational voids with mind-numbing nonsensical chatter? Then again, Sherlock rarely takes time to relish it, either, preferring to retreat into the sanctum of his mind for better entertainment than the company of others can offer him.</p><p>He's standing at the cliff edge now, watching birds swooping in the air, catching drafts and diving for fish in the raging waters. Even as a child, he'd found it hard to just enjoy scenery, no matter how magnificent. He'd catalogue the wildlife, peer under rocks, dig around tide pools and present his seawater-dripping discoveries to anyone who'd listen. Right now, he can see guillemot heads popping up on the wave crests; they are ungainly on land but penguin-like in their agility underwater. Arctic terns are hovering like hummingbirds, waiting for small fishes to appear close enough to the surface for them to dive in like kamikaze pilots. Sherlock has always loved their monochromatic look with a cap-like black head enlivened only by a red beak and feet. In the twenty or so minutes he spends standing there, he spots only a few puffins; the season of watching their antics is in early summer, not now. He can't recall what it is they do at this time of the year or when their winter plumage develops. The individuals he spots now clamouring on the rocks still have their summer colours.</p><p>When he'd asked Angus about local birds to make conversation, the lighthouse-keeper had brought out an old book, pages dotted with fly droppings, that featured a chapter on the founding of the Noup Cliffs Nature Reserve and a list of prominent local species. Angus had launched into a lively explanation on the puffins, occasionally chuckling with a wide grin, revealing his half-missing, browned teeth. He’d then pointed above a kitchen cabinet housing old blue-and-white china. There sat a dusty, taxidermied puffin next to a similarly immortalised gannet.</p><p>Sherlock recalls spotting an old shotgun hanging from a hook when he'd used the toilet before tea. "Do islanders hunt birds?"</p><p>Angus grimaces and points at his eye. "Cat'rects." He then spits on the floor, startling Sherlock. "Then Errepeen yenien." He shakes his head angrily.</p><p>"The Eu––– <em>European union</em>?" Perhaps John is right and understanding Angus is like any sport, requiring simply a lot of practice to master.</p><p>"Like Theenlish, just come errr and tell us what to do."</p><p>Sherlock cannot quite grasp the connection between the EU and hunting, but he'll take Angus' word for it. That shotgun hadn’t looked well-maintained, so it's probably best that Angus keeps it just as a decorative item. He wonders what animals besides fish live here that one might hunt. <em>Hare, surely. Or is it the European rabbit? Mallard? Duck?</em></p><p>Maybe he should ask John Watson.</p><p> </p><p>____________</p><p> </p><p>After keeping a brisk pace walking to his house, defying the wind that has picked up again, Sherlock feels more invigorated than tired. The bleak natural beauty of the place is showing itself now that he isn't so utterly shrouded in the misery of lacking even the basic necessities. If Mycroft's communique keeps its promise, he'll be out of here soon, and having such a deadline will help him think of this as a perversion of a holiday.</p><p>A theory had formed in his head on the walk regarding why Mycroft had picked this safe house. Not just because he'd think it funny — Sherlock trying to manage in an environment as far removed from their native London as possible, that is — but because here, he couldn't start using out of boredom. There's nothing available out here, and perhaps Mycroft had known he'd be so occupied with keeping himself clothed, fed and warm, that other things would be cast aside. <em>A trained agent probably wouldn't have any trouble managing life here</em>, Sherlock reasons as he shoves a few logs into the sitting room fireplace. <em>Victor would probably have enjoyed this</em>. He'd often regaled Sherlock with stories of missions in remote areas where travel was on the bouncy back of a battered truck, where food was whatever meagre offerings could be found, and nights were cold out in the desert. There were things to be read between the lines of these stories, a strange sort of disdain towards Sherlock. An insinuation that all he was good for was a life of luxury in London. And there wasn't any way to disprove those ideas of Victor's that he represented some savvy masculine ideal while Sherlock was some high-maintenance peacock that wouldn't survive a single night out in the wilderness.</p><p>Victor never judged him for the cocaine. Or the other substances he indulged in. It was because that was one thing they had in common. A shared bad habit Victor was good at concealing from his superiors, Mycroft included. Or perhaps they knew and turned a blind eye since stimulants had been actively doled out by armies in the past to help soldiers function past normal human limits of endurance.</p><p>Sherlock has no such need, no such excuse. They don't talk about his drug habit, him and Mycroft, but the topic lingers between the two of them like a foul smell. It is the very absence of conversation on it that makes Sherlock feel as though they are silently screaming at each other. Mycroft projects his fears and insecurities onto the fictional canvas of Sherlock's problems in his head. Sherlock prefers to pretend none of them exist. The one who worries too much and the one who doesn't worry at all. Shouldn't they balance out?</p><p>The last time he'd used, he’d been completely in control. It was a conscious choice, a one-off. He'd done it to celebrate the cracking of a complicated and not even that enjoyable of a case. It was two weeks after learning about Victor's death, and everything felt blank. After the adrenaline high of the case’s conclusion dissipated, he didn't want to go home alone, so he walked the streets for a few hours before ducking into a familiar club.</p><p>That last time he'd used was also the last time he'd let someone follow him home. Rob, 35, City banker. As sometimes happened, Sherlock had judged his suitor wrong because he can't really read people. He'd expected gentleness in bed to follow the sweet-talk at the club, but what transpired was the opposite. Rob fucked like he worked — to gain the most in the least amount of time. What Sherlock had longed for that night was to be held, not to be held down after too little foreplay and with even less lubricant in play.</p><p>"Thanks, mate," Rob had said after, re-lacing his shoes. He hadn't looked at Sherlock once after pulling out.</p><p>Sherlock had gathered the sheets to cover himself on the bed and felt what little warmth their encounter had created dissipate into the shadows in the draughty corners. "Sherlock," he had said, hoarse and quiet.</p><p>"Huh?" Rob's head had snapped up, his expression unreadable.</p><p><em>I'm not your mate</em>, Sherlock had wanted to say, wanted to make those words bite and sting like the fresh, smarting half-moons Rob's nails had left in his skin. <em>I have a name.</em> As much as he liked to pretend that he never cared about who he got off with, it hurt to be cared about so little that not even his name mattered. He'd never given them his real one before — why did he suddenly feel like he would burst if he had to pretend to be someone else for one minute more?</p><p>"Call ya," Rob remarked uninterestedly — remarked, not suggested, so those words must have been just an empty gesture. He was fully dressed by then.</p><p>"Don't," Sherlock replied after Rob's footsteps had retreated, likely far enough to be out of earshot. It was just as well that the word was drowned out by the flat door slamming closed.</p><p>Now, he settles into the old armchair by the fireplace, and lifts his arms above his head, feeling his vertebrae pop. It's so odd how solitude feels different here than it did in London. He's more alone than ever, but feels no expectations of others to change it, no pressure to partner himself with someone. <em>Whose expectations are such things, anyway, and why does he let them get to him? </em>Here, nobody expects anything from him. It's only at night when the loneliness feels chokingly oppressive. Here, there is nothing but space and peace and quiet. Had London provided a white noise he could use to drown out the essence of himself during those long hours he spends tossing and turning in bed? At least here, he sleeps in longer increments than just an hour at a time.</p><p>He thinks about Rob's long, thin, manicured fingers and John Watson's small, calloused hands with their fishhook scars. Somehow, Sherlock is convinced that when John Watson touches someone, he does it with reverence, and that John would know their name.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Perhaps the limitations EU legislation has placed on hunting have not hit Scotland as hard as they have Baltic islands, where the traditional sea bird hunting habits have had to change a lot in the past 20 years. Bird soup was one of my childhood delicacies; duck-like and mild if the birds shot eat mostly vegetables, pungently gamey if they eat shellfish. Summer guests always considered the latter an acquired taste LOL</p><p>Hunting the birds required being able to tell apart males from females, knowing the mating times, going out to the remotest areas to sit quietly hidden in reeds for hours with styrofoam decoy birds bobbing on the waves. It's core archipelago culture, and a disappearing bit of it at that. During wars and famine, island people tended to fare better than city folk because they were so much more self-sustaining. I don't hunt but my mother keeps my late father's hunting rifles and shotguns in working shape, and we lay nets in summertime at what used to be my father's house but is now our summer cottage.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. In Which Sherlock Makes Some Deductions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock unrolls the bandage and removes the wad of gauze covering the sutured cut on his arm. Some ragged skin edges are a bit yellowish, but the wound is not weeping blood or tissue fluid, nor is it swollen or reddened. This doesn’t worry Sherlock, since John had cut out the worst non-vital tissue after numbing the wound with lidocaine. It will leave a scar, but it won't be the worst Sherlock has gained in his years of detective work. John had given him supplies to cover it daily with fresh bandages and prompted him to report for a checkup in a few days. He hadn’t said when and where.<br/><br/>Sherlock had spent the morning exploring the ruins of Noltland Castle east of John’s house. Dating to the late 16th century, the fortress’ main parts are well-preserved, but most of the adjacent buildings and structures are nothing but a crumbling ruin. The multitude of gun loops and the thick walls bear testimony to what a formidable stronghold it had once been. New wooden staircases have been added for visitors that lead from the massive kitchens to the upper floors. A plaque had explained that the castle was meant to have three functioning floors, but only the second floor had been finished and used. Bloody skirmishes had been fought to gain control of it, draining the resources needed for construction. Standing in the courtyard, Sherlock had imagined the shouts of soldiers, their swords clashing as they struggled to control this rare shelter standing alone in the grasslands. Entering the great hall, he’d discovered all the roofs missing. One couldn’t see that from outside, where the castle looked much more intact than it really was. He’d found a scratched inscription barely legible on the right-hand side of the arched entrance. It read: <em>'</em><em>w</em><em>hen I see the blood I will pass over you in the night</em>'. If Sherlock had his phone, he would have already researched where the phrase comes from; perhaps it's a literary quote added later by a visitor instead of one of the original occupants?</p><p>Oh, if he only had his phone, he could entertain himself in multitudinous ways. He could scour the news to try to connect dots that might point to Mycroft having resolved the little problem that had forced him to take this desolate sabbatical. Sherlock is aware that leaving one’s mobile phone behind is a part of the standard operating procedure to prevent certain entities from tracking him and accessing his email or other online accounts would be risky. Still, there should be no harm in using someone else's computer to read the news. <br/>Angus had spat on the floor again when Sherlock had asked about internet access, and he hadn’t spotted a computer of any kind in John’s house. <em>John must have online access at the clinic,</em> Sherlock realises. He could use the excuse of needing to ask when the stitches could come out to pop down to the clinic. Perhaps John could be enticed with lunch to give Sherlock five minutes on his appointment room’s PC? Perhaps even ten minutes? Half an hour? He recalls John should be at work today. Perhaps he should have spared the castle for a picnic with his neighbour? Normally, Sherlock would never want company for a visit to a museum or to a historical site because people never tend to need as much time to examine every interesting exhibit that he does. Having to compromise with their preferences would be irritating, especially if some nuisance of a companion distracted him by trying to talk to him. But surely John wouldn’t be so bad? He’s already demonstrated himself to be capable of polite silence. Sherlock wonders if John might know more about the castle than the scarce plaques scattered about had told him during his visit.</p><p>
  <em>Did John play at the castle as a child?</em>
</p><p>____________</p><p> </p><p>The start of Sherlock’s hike to Pierowall is delayed by the fact that seagulls have ripped apart the garbage bag he'd left on the front steps. He’d had seen Angus drop his litter into an old oil barrel and close it with a lid, and now he understands why. Wildlife damage hadn't ever occurred to him, especially not damage caused by birds, and it looks like the attack has been vicious. He shoves everything back into the broken bag and leaves it just inside the door. It might start stinking, but that's better than having its contents spread around the garden. It's humiliating to realise how much of living here just doesn't occur to him after the conveniences of London. It had taken him three tries to get the hearth in the kitchen going yesterday. At home, if he doesn't succeed at once with the fireplace in the sitting room, he gives up. Here, he desperately needs the warmth for survival and for making tea, not in that priority order.</p><p>The grocery store at Pierowall had turned out to be well-stocked with fresh produce. Sherlock doubts it will remain so come the long winter months, since much of what was on offer was local. John had mostly bought tinned goods with some potatoes and carrots added in, while Sherlock had indulged in some treats such as chocolate. Does John not enjoy such treats? Surely, even a part-time physician's salary could enable such comforts occasionally. Or maybe the man’s pantry was already stocked with biscuits and such? <em>Not everyone has a sweet tooth</em>, Sherlock reminds himself. <em>Some people live modestly; I might argue I do, too, in many ways</em>. He won't make compromises in certain things such as clothing, bed linens, and hairstyling, but he's hardly one to wear the pavement by shopping for fun or wasting time on luxurious, lazy holidays.</p><p>It's obvious that John doesn't come from money. His clothing is of high quality, but the pieces are old and lovingly patched up. He keeps things tidy but not overtly so, and he's handy with tools and fishes for food. <em>John wouldn't live and work here if the acquisition of lots of money was high on his priority list.</em></p><p><br/>_____________</p><p> </p><p>In Pierowall, Sherlock makes a point of greeting people he passes on the narrow streets. In London, withdrawing into himself and ignoring others would be the best way to blend in, to be inconspicuous. Here, he should act as if he knows everyone, as if he's been here before and is comfortable in these surroundings. His messy, greasy hair and fledgeling, uneven beard should add verisimilitude; he's hoping the locals will assume he does manual labour. <em>Perhaps he could be a fisherman expanding his territory as fish stocks deplete, or a friend visiting from mainland?</em></p><p>He decides the latter is his best ruse and strides into the GP surgery on the pier. The receptionist is a thirty-something woman with windswept red hair that looks like it's never met a bottle of conditioner. Sherlock glances to the pin board behind her and spots a postcard tacked there with a female name on it.</p><p>"Hello, <em>Emma</em>," he coos. "Is John in? He told me pop in so he could have a look at this." He shoves up his wax coat and jumper sleeve to show her the bandage.</p><p>There is a brief look of unease, then half an apologetic grimace twists her features. <em>She's scrambling for a lie,</em> Sherlock instantly recognises.</p><p>"I'm sorry, but Dr Watson is… not here. I could leave him a message?"</p><p>"When will he be back?" Sherlock glances at the wall clock. "The sign on the door said you re-open after 1 pm, and it's twenty past. Long lunch?"</p><p>"No, he's… Dr Watson is taking a personal day. He'll likely be back tomorrow."</p><p>Her choice of word — <em>likely</em> — tells Sherlock that while she'd stated he's taking a personal day might signal they've spoken about this, softening that up with such an obfuscating addition says otherwise. "He's alright, isn't he? Have you spoken with him today?"</p><p>Emma purses her lips. "Who did you say you were? I can't remember you."</p><p>"Oh, I'm visiting our mutual friend here and John kindly patched me up. I'm not registered as a patient."</p><p><em>In for a penny, in for a pound</em>. Sherlock slaps on his sweetest smile and leans over the counter. "John promised I could look up a few things on his computer today after he’s checked on the wound. I wouldn't be a minute; perhaps you could unlock his door for me?"</p><p>"I can't really do that without him being here. We should be able to get some locum cover in two days if he can't come to work before then. I could pencil you in–––"</p><p><em>Drat</em>. "No, no, that won't be necessary. I can just as easily pop down to see John this evening at home. Surely it's good to make sure he doesn't need anything if he's fallen ill."</p><p>Emma drops some pencils into a mug. "Um… that would be nice, but he… I don't think he'd answer the door." She exhales and swallows, looking worried, now. <em>Worried and embarrassed, like someone who's said too much?</em></p><p>Emma is clearly covering for John, who's gone awol. And something tells Sherlock it's not the first time. <em>He's the only GP here, so the community would want to hold on to him since it must be difficult to recruit anyone to work here. Sherlock thinks it likely that they'd be willing to look through their fingers even larger discretions that the GMC would frown upon to keep a doctor, especially if they saw John as one of their own since he’s lived here for long periods of time. GMC would only know if someone actively reported him</em>.</p><p>Sherlock squares his shoulders. "It's quite alright; I know John very well. Is it… the drinking?" he asks, imbibing his tone with as much conspiratorial concern as he can.</p><p>Emma shrugs — just a jerk of her bony shoulders, as though she's trying to shrug off the unpleasant truth like a mallard shaking water droplets off its feathers.</p><p>"Have you tried to call him?" Sherlock presses.</p><p>"I didn’t bother this time; he never answers."</p><p>"How do you know when to expect him back, then?"</p><p>"I don't. People here don't really ask so many questions," she says, suddenly defiant, gaze roving up and down Sherlock's form. "We need to respect his privacy. He's never been gone for more than two days at a time."</p><p>"You've been very helpful," Sherlock says resignedly, uses his palms to push away from the reception counter, and heads for the door.</p><p>"There's a computer in the visitor centre you can use for a pound an hour," Emma calls after him.</p><p>The visitor’s centre it is, then. The older lady manning it brings him a cup of tea while he uses the old, creaky PC, the monitor’s resolution a mess. The connection is not fast, but it's enough to scan through eight different major news outlets for anything that might point to power structure shifts in criminal organisations or significant international intelligence-related events. There’s nothing of note going on; whatever sort of gambit Mycroft is trying to execute, the kings and queens are still standing on the board.</p><p>On a whim, Sherlock searches for John by name. He finds many John Watsons, several of them physicians, and wishes he had a full name. Finally, he finds some bits and pieces about the reorganisation of British army medical corps in Afghanistan, and in one of the news pieces John is mentioned as a surgeon working at Camp Bastion. The man doesn't have a social media presence, which is hardly surprising — he doesn't seem like a person who'd run after all the latest technological gadgets or spend his days posting pictures of his fishing catches or his spartan breakfasts online. Save for evidence of having been in the army, John has not left much of an electronic footprint. What has made him work only part time? Sherlock wonders. Recovering alcoholic with mental health issues? How recovering is he, if he sometimes doesn't show up at work due to drinking? Not answering the phone signals John doesn't want company when this happens. <em>Is he ashamed, and what triggers these episodes?</em> Sherlock knows from experience that a drop down the trapdoor that sobriety always comes with doesn't require a specific reason, but humans do sometimes have patterns. John had seemed distracted yesterday, restless even. Had he been feeling the cravings? Had the arrival of Sherlock with the ram interrupted his plans of giving in to the temptation yesterday? Is that why he'd been so moody and left so quickly?</p><p>Sherlock realises this is going to haunt him the rest of the day. Maybe he really <em>should</em> pay a visit to John tonight, act clueless about what's going on as though he'd never come to Pierowall today. He's a stranger here, so breaking social rules could be excused. <em>And what are the rules, anyway? We're neighbours, and surely John would think it logical that, when I want company, I'd rather choose him than Angus and his horny beast.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. In Which It's Difficult To Make Friends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The sun is lingering on the horizon as Sherlock makes his third trek of the day, this time to John's house. He's carrying fresh empire biscuits in a paper bag — the visitor centre lady had practically ordered him to go buy some from the café to take home since they were fresh today. Sherlock is not certain how much difference being eaten on the day of baking makes to jam combined with round, flat bits of shortbread, but at least he has something to present to John as guest gift. <em>Isn't that what people do?</em></p><p>He smokes three cigarettes on the way; they're hard to light because of the brisk wind. He'd replenished his stock with a full carton at the gas station in Pierowall. It's not his preferred brand, but island-stranded freelance operatives can be choosers.</p><p>The opening in the old stone wall delineating John's property is missing a proper gate. As he arrives in the garden, Sherlock tries to decide what to say when John opens the door. <em>If he opens it.</em> <em>Perhaps start with a standard 'hello' and try to improvise from there?</em> He could shove the paper bag at John and say it's an expression of gratitude for all his help. <em>Would it be too little, though? </em>Sherlock has never quite grasped how to tell when symbolic value is enough in a gift, or when favours and services rendered should be met with a more worthy offering.</p><p>He knocks on the front door which startles a bird out of the bramble next to a gutter pipe. He can hear the radio on inside and, leaning to the right, holding on to the railing, he can spot John's boots on the floor just inside the door, muddy and discarded there haphazardly.</p><p>The radio gets suddenly much louder. Sherlock knocks again and hears a bang and then some faint cursing.</p><p>
  <em>Should I knock a third––</em>
</p><p>The door opens, startling him, and he nearly drops the paper bag.</p><p>John's expression is severe, but his eyes are glassy, slow to focus. A sheen of sweat glistens on his flushed cheeks, and his hair is even messier than usual. His coordination is off as he tries to kick a boot away from the doorway, after which he fixes his gaze on Sherlock with the menacing determination of a drunk man seeing something he doesn't like. Clearly, he is a man who's practiced being this drunk enough times to be able to stay upright and to compensate for some of the heavy drinking’s physical effects by slowing his movements down.</p><p>"Evening," Sherlock says brightly. "Biscuit?" he opens the bag and points the mouth of it towards the door.</p><p>John stares into it as though expecting a basilisk to claw itself out. "The fuck?"</p><p>"I just––" now this is where Sherlock realises he should have planned this conversation better, made strategies for varying levels of inebriation.</p><p>"What are you doing here, William?" John asks.</p><p>"I wanted to thank you for yesterday. And the day before." Sherlock omits mentioning specific acts of charity because the companionship had meant even more than John's willingness to drive him around.</p><p>"Consider it done. Now go."</p><p>Even Sherlock can tell that's rude. <em>Don't drunkards usually want company? Or is John one of those tragic, broody types?</em>While Sherlock prefers to use alone, doing it with Victor had its perks. <em>Such as great sex. Occasionally great sex. Well, good sex. Sex in general. Having someone in the flat.</em> John lives alone; wouldn't he sometimes want company? Then again, Sherlock has no idea how many friends John has here on Westray. <em>Perhaps he has so many that there are no openings in his social calendar. Ha.</em></p><p>"Look…" John is pinching the bridge of his nose. It had taken him two tries to bracket it with his thumb and forefinger. "It's not a good time."</p><p>"I can see that." Sherlock can't help it: he’s irritated, and it tightens his voice to the verbal equivalent of a taut piano wire.</p><p>"Just fuck off, will you?" John’s words are more venomous than the tone. "Not in the mood." Instead of defiant, he now looks pleading — as though he wants Sherlock to go before he changes his mind.<br/>Sherlock reaches down to place the paper bag conscientiously on the first step, turns on his heel and descends the two steps down. The door slams closed behind him.</p><p>The determination in his steps runs out by the crumbling stone wall, and he realises he's shaking. As usual, he’s run aground in the shallows of human interaction. What had he even expected? That John would welcome a stranger when he won’t even answer calls from work? How is it that people manage to support each other, to break through such barriers of anger and dismissal, so that they can be there for other people? How is it done? And why had he even suddenly wanted to get mixed up in the obvious mess of John Watson’s life? It’s utterly pathetic, the way he’s rendered defenceless when he allows someone else to extend even the tiniest bit of kindness towards him. They always turn on him if they don’t dismiss him right away. His spine is snapped stiff with anger because had enough of this, enough of people hating him for no good reason, for punishing him for things he hasn't done, for never understanding what it is they think is wrong with his company. He can't leave things like this, can't have yet another person make him feel small, can't let them have the final word by denying him their company.</p><p>He has no idea why he's reacting like this today he’s been able to just shrug off these things so many times. Why is he shaking from righteous rage in the twilight of some stupid island he'll be leaving soon, anyway, just because some random stranger won't give him the time of day? <em>What does it even matter if some has-been army doctor doesn't think very highly of me?</em>  He huffs. John Watson owes him nothing, but he doesn't deserve to be kicked to the kerb like this, does he? <em>Does anyone?</em></p><p>He tries to remind himself that the whims of a drunken man shouldn't be taken seriously. Whatever John's problem is, Sherlock is not the cause, and it’s likely John won’t even remember tomorrow that they’d spoken. They don't know each other, not really. Yet all Sherlock knows for certain is that he won't step into a boat that takes him away from here, unless he's made sure that the words that have just been spat at him won't be yet another thing he'll spend the rest of his days trying to analyse because he overthinks everything always and people are the worst kinds of puzzles, the kind he can never solve.</p><p>
  <em>No, John Watson, you don't get to do this.</em>
</p><p>Sherlock marches back to the door and bangs his fists on in so hard that the old wood groans. He plants his feet on the first step, poised for battle.</p><p>The door slams open again and John, standing silhouetted in the dirty, yellow light from the old bulb in the hallway, says nothing. He just stares in disbelief.</p><p>"You said you needed to check on my sutures," Sherlock challenges.</p><p>"Reserve an appointment at the clinic like everybody else."</p><p>"I <em>did</em> go to the clinic, but no reservation was made because your receptionist had no idea when you'd be back." <em>And I know why. And now you know I know––</em></p><p>Perhaps John's brain, in its luxurious bath of whisky, isn't in a state where it could make that deduction. "Emma can take the stitches out in two days."</p><p>"<em>No. You.</em>" Sherlock hopes that John's drunken logic will accept this as a reasonable demand.</p><p>"I can't––" John slurs, averting his eyes, "I can't get involved in what it is you are."</p><p>"What's that supposed to mean, then? What <em>am</em> I, pray tell?"</p><p>"You'll be gone in a week or whatever, won't you? I thought that maybe someone had actually bought the house and would live there, but when you came here without even a pot to piss in, it's–– it's the same as always," John slurs.</p><p>John doesn't want to get to know anyone who's just going to leave? Doesn't want to be disappointed? Fair enough. Sherlock can relate to that. He has sworn off friends for that same reason: people always leave. They always leave and disappoint you. He knows full well that they won't be friends, he and John Watson. They will know one another for the duration of Sherlock's stay. They'll be opportunists seeking a bit of company where they can, and once Sherlock leaves, it'll be… nothing. Nothing is what John will be. Sherlock is ashamed of letting loneliness get to him like this, but it can't be helped, now. He's revealed his cards to John. His soft underbelly. He can only hope the man is drunk enough not to realise it. The anger has drained out of Sherlock, leaving in its place the grey fog of dejection that has been his constant companion for much of his adulthood, save for the flickers of light that Victor's presence had sometimes offered when it wasn't making him feel sour. Being with Victor was such a strange deal with the devil: he had to pay for those good moments with periods of feeling even worse than he usually did.</p><p>John's fingers have curled around the door handle. There's a circle of smooth, slightly peeling off skin on his left fourth finger. His ring finger. <em>A ring he's worn for a long time, recently removed — for good?</em></p><p>John looks down, his expression sober. "Come back tomorrow but make it early. I'm going fishing."</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. In Which There Is an Unexpected Invitation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am posting two chapters today since they are connected so tightly timeline-wise.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>How early is early enough? Why must John be so cryptic?</em>
</p><p>Sherlock has reasoned that fishing is unlikely to commence before the sun rises, so he leaves his house at six thirty. There's just enough glow on the horizon that, once his eyes adjust to the darkness, he has no trouble following the road. There are still plenty of stars visible, but birdsong is picking up intensity as the local fauna prepares for the day. The road isn't very muddy but he's still wearing the wellingtons, wanting to spare his leather oxfords from the elements. They may be the perfect choice of footwear for being presentable in London, but here they're an impractical laughingstock. He'd still put on his Belstaff. With a thick jumper on stuffing his arms into the sleeves had led into quite a stiff, snug fit, but it can't be helped. The company who had made his beloved coat are famed for creating clothing items suitable for British weather, so the coat should not only keep him warm but award him with a renewed sense of dignity. It had drained in the night hours as he'd kept recalling John's rejection and his incapability of letting the matter go. <em>Why did I go back to the door like that?</em> He can only hope John remembers enough about yesterday to be equally embarrassed, which would level the playing field, or remember nothing. Sherlock is going to gauge from the man's reaction to seeing him how much recall of yesterday binge-drinking there is. Had a new bottle joined the rows of empty ones on the shelves and side tables? <em>Why would John display them like that, like trophies?</em></p><p>His demure knock brings no one to the door, but he's quick to descend the front steps and walk around the house after hearing some splashes. There's a footpath to the shore, where a small pier with a boathouse sits, planks and poles twisted by ice and snow over the decades the structures have withstood the elements. By the pier floats a very small boat — the word dinghy comes to mind — with a small outboard engine. John is standing in it with a bright, orange scoop in hand, emptying water from the bottom. He's wearing a raincoat, a wax hat and wellingtons, and an apron made from dark blue raincoat fabric on top. The boat is already filled with fishing gear — strange, short and heavy rods with numerous lures hanging from a thick line. John moves around the boat nimbly, even though every step makes it swing from side to side on the water. It's completely wooden; Sherlock suspects it handmade. <em>Family heirloom?</em></p><p>He has been noticed. "Morning!"</p><p>John's greeting is infused with enough surprise that it could be explained by how early Sherlock has showed up. It is hard to tell just from one word what he remembers from yesterday.</p><p>"You told me to come early, so…"</p><p>John leans down to remove a bit more water out of the boat. He is emptying it very meticulously; his last scoops produce little more than a teaspoon of water. Finally, he flings a bit of kelp off a seat into the mirror-calm sea and climbs out to where Sherlock is standing at the edge of the grass off the pier.</p><p>"Let's see if we could get rid of those stitches," John says, wipes his wet hands on his jeans underneath the apron and raincoat, and begins leading Sherlock back to the house. "Or, we could do it after?"</p><p>"After what?" John holds the door open and Sherlock ducks under his arm into the house.</p><p>They're not in the kitchen, and John stops putting things out from a cabinet to frown at him. "After we get back, of course."</p><p>Sherlock's expression must betray his confusion.</p><p>"You did say yes, didn't you?" John looks unsure.</p><p>"To what?"</p><p>"Last night, I said you could come with, didn't I?"</p><p>"To go <em>fishing</em>?" <em>Do I look dressed for the part?</em></p><p>Sherlock had an angling rod as a child. He wasn't really interested in eating what came up on the rare occasion he caught something in the small lake close to their house — he wanted to study the creatures. He kept them in buckets in his room, much to the horror of his mother.</p><p>"I guess I didn't. Well, do you want to?" John asks as though offering something inconsequential like a biscuit.</p><p>John can't remember a lot from yesterday if he assumes he's extended a kind invitation for a day out on the waves. <em>Do I want to go?</em> What Sherlock wants is to forget about yesterday, to start anew, to spend time with John. He would not have picked fishing but knows that he's standing at a precipice. The likeliest consequence of saying no is that John sorts out his wound, and then they never see each other again. He wouldn't come knocking on this man's door to humiliate himself a second time, like some dog crawling back to its unpleasant owner, would he?</p><p>
  <em>What do I want with John Watson, and why?</em>
</p><p>"Yes, thank you," he says. <em>Is that the right thing to say to a fishing invitation? Do people here even pose such formal invitations, or just state 'fishing tomorrow' to people they know?</em> He must be making all sorts of social gaffes all the time without realising. <em>The story of my life</em>.</p><p>John's brows rise, and he breaks into a smile. How is it that it's so easily produced, so sunny and carefree right now after the heaviness of yesterday? John looks energised by the concept of where they're going even though there are clear signs of a hangover. Sherlock's nose picks up the scent of strong coffee from the dishes in the sink, there is a packet of ibuprofen on the counter and a sandwich has been left hand uneaten to gather flies on the counter and Sherlock wonders if it's because of nausea.</p><p>He lets John work on his injury in amicable silence. In the end, the doctor decides he should keep the stitches for two more days but says that it's all healing nicely. He wraps Sherlock's forearm meticulously in bandages, even pulls his sleeve down and gives the wrist a pat. "Try not to get it wet. We need to get you a raincoat, anyway."</p><p>Sherlock glances out the window. A few clouds have drifted in, and the sun keeps disappearing behind them. <em>Fishing is likely to be wet and messy, hence the raincoats</em>.</p><p>"It's going to rain," John says.</p><p>Sherlock blinks, shifting his gaze from the not very precipitous-looking clouds in the sky to John. "Excuse me?"</p><p>"It'll rain in a few hours."</p><p>"How can you tell?"</p><p>"I can't — the prognosis can. And the barometer."</p><p>Sherlock wants to kick himself again. This is yet another reminder of how reactive his relationship with the weather is: he looks out the window when looping his scarf around his neck to decide whether he should grab an umbrella, that's all. Here, weather is like a neighbour whose activities must be monitored and discussed. "But why would we head out if the weather's going to turn?"</p><p>John is looking at him as though he's a bit daft. "That's when you catch the most."</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. In Which Things Rise from The Depths</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Close to the shore, the boat splits the water with little bounce but, once they get to the open sea, the diminishing remnants of the ferry's aft waves make the boat bob up and down like a cork, making Sherlock slightly alarmed. John, unaffected by this nature's version of a roller coaster, steers them determinedly towards Papa Westray island in the north but kills the engine by a sandbank-like sliver of an island between Westray and its namesake. Once again, they are treated to the ferry's waves and Sherlock wonders if he might get seasick if this happens very frequently. Thankfully, John sticks out the oars and positions them close to some rocks jutting out of the sea. Perhaps they'll offer some protection from the elements.</p><p>Sherlock's expression must betray his suspicion for the seaworthiness of this vessel, but that just seems to amuse John.</p><p>"These old, wooden, handmade things are bottom-heavy. Never heard one of them tipping over even in the November storms," John assures him and starts arranging his gear. He gives to Sherlock one of the short rods with heavy metal rings through which the line has been threaded. The reel is simple, uncovered unlike the one with a longer rod Sherlock had spotted fisherman casting lures into the roiling waves in Pierowall next to the surgery.</p><p>They're both wearing old raincoats now, and John had also lent Sherlock a pair of fingerless woollen gloves which he has shoved into his pocket; coarse wool makes his skin itch like mad. He doesn't care if his leather gloves get wet or dirty; he'll get a new pair in London.</p><p>Just as John had predicted, the cloud cover has thickened, and it has begun to drizzle with rain. It's oddly warm, which explains why a fog has enveloped the horizon.</p><p>"Perfect weather for cod-angling," John says, "the currents get weaker than usual around the rocky outcrops where they live in the deep bits, and they'll come out to eat."</p><p>Under John's tutelage Sherlock attaches a grey, metallic lure with several three-pointed hooks onto his line. Finally, he manages to impress John with a useful island skill: his knowledge of knots. He'd once looked into all that when a case involved Japanese rope bondage and found learning them from a book and practicing at home from a bit of white rope from a magician's kit quite relaxing. He tells John this.</p><p>He then decides it should be safe enough to tell the man he's a private detective and explains about the rope-related case. <em>Plenty of those in London</em>.</p><p>There's a raised brow. "Japanese rope bondage? I've never heard of that."</p><p>Sherlock shrugs. "<em>Shibari</em> is more about a specific sensual aesthetic than sex."</p><p>A mischievous glint in John's eyes warms the pit of Sherlock's stomach.</p><p>"If you say so," John offers, then plonks his lure down into the depths, letting the line unspool from the reel. "We want to lower the lures all the way down to the bottom, then reel in about one to two metres."</p><p>Sherlock is impressed by how long it takes for the line to go slack.</p><p>"Every islander has their secret spots. This was my dad's. Never came home without a good catch. There are trenches here down to fifty metres. Cods need the deep; they die very quickly after being pulled up," John explains.</p><p>This reminds Sherlock of the saying that sharks die if they stop swimming. Oddly enough, it also reminds Sherlock of something Mycroft had told him a year prior. Standing by Sherlock's hospital bed after a… disagreement with a dealer, his brother had said that he was disappointed to find that Sherlock refused to thrive anywhere but among the bottom-dwellers of society. "<em>It's as though you genuinely believe you'd expire from an attempt at a normal, safe existence.</em>"</p><p><em>Look</em>, he wants to shout at his idiot sibling who thinks he's his minder, somehow; <em>I'm sober and gone bloody fishing in Scotland! What more do you want from me?!</em></p><p>"You've gone broody," John points out as he leans over the railing to pull his first cod in. It's small, likely not more than two kilograms.</p><p>Sherlock is familiar with the most common Atlantic fishes consumed in Britain, but has never quite appreciated them in their original, non-filleted form. Three rounded dorsal fins, a chin barbel that makes it look rather contemplative. The colour is mottled, darker than he would have assumed. There's dark brown colouration on the back and sides. The fish draws a few convulsive breaths, flops its tail once, then goes slack and silent.</p><p>"It's not really accurate that sharks die if they stop swimming," Sherlock says, then realises he's thinking out loud and that sharks had not been mentioned in conversation.</p><p>"Oh," John says politely.</p><p>"They don't have air bladders, so they rely on fin movement to propel themselves around, and to wash their gills with fresh oxygenated water. Some of them have other mechanisms of ensuring constant water flow into their gills, such as a pumping motion with their pharynx, and those species can rest on the sea bottom."</p><p>
  <em>Why has John Watson chosen to rest on the proverbial sea bottom of this island instead of being an army doctor still? Why's he washing his gills with whisky?</em>
</p><p>Sherlock can't help but wonder where the person whose ring John had worn and recently removed is. There are no photographs on display in John's house of anyone who could be a spouse, and Sherlock has deduced that this is likeliest to points to a very messy divorce. <em>When a spouse passes away people seem to have a need for sentimental rituals of preservation: keepsakes, photographs, rooms left the way they were when that person was alive…</em> <em>Perhaps there was no prenuptial agreement, and she somehow wrung John's finances dry, took their house or flat and forced him to retreat here?</em></p><p>"Which sort are you, then?" John jokes, and Sherlock is jolted back into the present from rummaging around his Mind Palace.</p><p>"Many large sharks are solitary," Sherlock points out, and a flush of red heats his cheeks as he realises that perhaps he shouldn't have said that.</p><p>John lifts up the cod he's holding. "A decent size for one meal. This is the only spot in Orkney where they go this dark brown," John says.</p><p>There's something about that knowledge and the appreciative reverence in John's tone which pleases Sherlock. Being fond of London, he's never paid much attention to naturalist propaganda about the glory of living off the land and respecting one's food, but this fish has lived free in the open ocean, eaten what it wanted, chased smaller fishes and lived its best life until this quick death for a useful purpose. <em>It's more than most humans can hope for</em>. <em>Does John feel like he's filling his purpose by living here?</em></p><p>John opens a hatch in the middle seat Sherlock hadn't really noticed before. He reaches in to remove a piece of cork from the bottom, and seawater soon gushes in to fill it. "More useful when I lay nets since the fish stay alive there, but it'll do for our friend," he jokes. He reaches for the knife kept under the front seat and cuts the fish's throat while holding it outside the railing, letting the blood run into the ocean. "Their blood is bitter and gets worse if you don't get it out right after they die."</p><p>He drops the now drained cod into the makeshift tank inside the seat.</p><p>"Why do they live so deep?" Sherlock asks.</p><p>"I once asked my Dad that, and he didn't know. He just said that's how it is. That's what he said about a lot of stuff. I read once, I think, that it has something to do with how their roe does or doesn't float in a certain pressure or salinity."</p><p>If the question had occurred to Sherlock before, he would have tirelessly sought an answer until he found it. Here, in the middle of the ocean, he finds himself uncharacteristically willing to accept such uncertainty. Just like he must accept that he'll stay here until he can go back, and there is no way to know how long he has left.</p><p><em>Back to what, exactly?</em> asks his brain's approximation of his brother's dismissive voice.</p><p>"Shut up," Sherlock mutters through clenched teeth.</p><p>"Hm?" John asks, checking that the knots on his lure have held.</p><p>"Your father showed you this spot with the cod, then?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>Sherlock had hoped this might prompt John to tell him more, but the man remains silent.</p><p>Sherlock's rod hasn't shown any signs of being disturbed by an unfortunate cod, so there's little to do except sink into his own thoughts or focus on John, and John is infinitely more interesting right now than wallowing. Sherlock watches him reaching underneath his raincoat, then rolling and kneading his shoulder — first from the front, then the back. That's not how people typically act when just trying to rid themselves of a crick in his neck.</p><p>There is a deduction to be made here. <em>Service injury? Maybe he was invalided home.</em></p><p>"Afghanistan or Iraq?"</p><p>John flinches. Says nothing. Averts his eyes.</p><p>"It's obvious you're military from the way you carry yourself."</p><p>"Op Telic. Served as a GDMO with the RAMC, formally with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."</p><p>"GDMO?"</p><p>"General Duties Medical Officer. We ran a coalition field clinic in Qayyarah. Heavy insurgent activity."</p><p>"Is that where you were injured?"</p><p>John doesn't answer. Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if just being invalided home was traumatic enough that he doesn't want to discuss it. He's aching to ask more questions: <em>had John enjoyed it, how long had he stayed in the army, had he always planned that career? Where is whoever gave him that ring?</em></p><p>John has shifted on the front bench so that he's facing the horizon instead of Sherlock. It's obvious he doesn't want to discuss this further.</p><p>Perhaps it's for the best that Sherlock's rod chooses this moment to twitch to life.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. In Which Sherlock Jitters On A Pier and A Cod Meets Its End</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock is oscillating on the pier like nervous clients do at his doorstep in London because he doesn’t know what to expect next. The fishing is over; is he expected to leave now? John, seemingly oblivious to his distress, is rinsing fish slime off the boat with copious amounts of seawater scooped from over the gunwale. Four cods of varying sizes are lying on the pier, lifted out of the water-filled middle seat. Their eyes are turning milky grey as the processes of death and decay set in. As they made their way back from John’s cod spot, he had told Sherlock that the best way to tell if fish is fresh is to look at the gills. If they are still bright red, it has been hauled out of the sea within the last few hours, alive and struggling. If they are light pink, it is on its way to becoming a rotting carcass.</p><p>"If it smells or the gills have gone grey, don't touch it unless you want food poisoning. And never buy herring that's got pink cheeks," John now adds, stopping his boat-washing to catch his breath. His cheeks are pinch-pink from the rain and the salty wind that had whipped their skin raw, no matter how warm the temperature is. The rain is little more than mist now, and the ferry's horn sounds occasionally from the thick cotton enveloping the open sea further out.</p><p>Sherlock hums in haphazard agreement. He cannot imagine what purpose he'd ever buy fresh herring for, save for an experiment. Their housekeeper had frequently cooked seafood for the family and, as long as the bones are in a logical order, Sherlock doesn't mind a fish meal. He's not sure if John had been having him on when he'd praised cod liver as a delicacy. Sherlock's only encounter with fish liver has been in the form of an abhorrent liquid said housekeeper had tried to force on him as a child since it contains vitamins. He'd thrown it all up in the pot of the ficus in Mummy's study. Not even Mycroft, the gluttonous little reprobate he'd been at the age of nine, had managed to stomach that foul concoction.</p><p><em>What will become of these cod?</em> Sherlock wonders, leaning down on his haunches to admire the beautiful variation in the spotted colours on their flanks. Apparently, people even eat the roe. That is one foodstuff Sherlock will always decline. He finds neither the texture, the smell, nor the usual accompaniments enticing. He's always suspected caviar to be one of those emperor's-new-clothes things — that very few people enjoy it but won't admit so lest they be judged for being uncultured.</p><p>Somehow, he doubts John would bother with such social mind games. He’s under the impression that army culls such nonsense out of a person, unlike the sorts of boarding schools his parents had sent their boys. They are fortresses of nonsense and archaic pretentiousness, and thus Mycroft had thrived in them. Sherlock considers it one of his greatest achievements that he was booted out of Eton. He wonders what John had been like as a schoolboy. Hard-working but rowdy? Mediocre but athletic? Surely, he had been popular rather than solitary, and sickeningly normal in many ways.</p><p>Sherlock rises to his feet and offers John a hand to help him climb out of the boat. John doesn't take it; instead, he nimbly leaps up onto the pier after placing the fishing gear next to the pole onto which he'd tied the boat. Another line, clipped to a ring just behind the captain's seat, runs to a pole at the other end of the pier that hugs the small boathouse. Sherlock would be interested in exploring its contents but wonders if it would be rude to just duck in and start investigating. Would he find bits of John's family history? Most likely there would be little there that could shed light on his recently ended marriage, though.</p><p>"You know how to gut yours, don't you?" John asks, cocking his head towards their catch.</p><p>Sherlock blinks. He couldn’t even tell which <em>one he’d pulled up</em>. "Um, yes," he lies, thoroughly fed up with being the city-dweller underdog. <em>It can't be that difficult, filleting a cod. I'll just search for a video–– damn.</em> He remembers he doesn't have his phone. These past few days have made him realise how attached he is to the thing, how reliant on the vast amounts of information it can provide a person he’s become. It’s invaluable to his work, but here…</p><p>He knows fish anatomy, of course — he'd studied it as a part of his biology classes at school, and he had revised that knowledge last year to solve a case involving a sapphire ring and a decorative carp. He can tell apart the premaxilla from the maxilla and dentary bones, identify the brachiostegal rays and visualise the opercular, but he doesn't quite know how to–––</p><p>"You need to cut in next to the spine; if you cut open the belly first as usual, you'll ruin cod meat. It's just a muddy mess inside instead of stuff being organised very neatly like in many other species," John rattles off in a tone that signals he truly assumes Sherlock is familiar with all this.</p><p>"I can't say I've ever prepared a cod for consumption," Sherlock admits. Perhaps John will find it flattering that his expertise is needed.</p><p>It appears that Sherlock’s hunch is right because John beams after hearing this. Perhaps he enjoys being in charge, being knowledgeable. Sherlock cannot help wondering what a formidable sight Captain John Watson of the RAMC had been on the battlefield, wrist-deep in someone's innards. With a bit of coaxing as they waited for the next tugs on their rods, John had told him his rank. Being a captain means he must've served for more than three years after officer training. He'd mentioned wanting to move forward in the medical training the army provided towards trauma or general surgery, but his shoulder injury had put an end to such plans. Sherlock had wondered but not asked out loud when the marriage had come into the picture, and whether that may have also put a damper on an idea of staying deployed for longer. He has frequently voiced questions at people which have been met with surprise and outrage — things people think he shouldn't have said out loud. There are no photographs of a spouse in the house. John's finger is still bearing signs of sloughing skin caused by a ring which means it has been recently removed. These facts broadcast a dramatic turn in John’s life so Sherlock is certain that he needs the right moment — assuming one even exists — to ask about it. He doesn't want to make John clam up, which he does frequently even when they’re not discussing anything Sherlock could recognise as awkward. They can be in the middle of a conversation that's going well when John trails out or turns away as though lost in thought, then seems to expect Sherlock to take the cue and change the topic. Sherlock wonders if his admission of being a private detective has made John suspicious. At one point, John had chuckled in a hollow manner, given Sherlock a once-over, then said that a private detective on a case wouldn't probably admit to being a private detective. It had sounded almost like a question, and Sherlock had replied that it depends on the case. There are probably rules or even laws about such things, but he couldn't give a rat's arse about them. He's always had his own professional standards and modus operandi.</p><p><em>Can he tell I'm obfuscating certain things?</em> Sherlock wonders, following John to the shore on the opposite side of the boathouse where a table that looks built for the purpose features a plastic cutting board and a bucket hanging off the side containing a few different knives.</p><p>He hasn't lied. William <em>is</em> his name, one nobody uses. He's a detective. <em>It’s all just semantics, different facets of the same stone</em>.</p><p>"These will make a lovely soup. There's still some dill that hasn't gone yellow in the garden," John says. “Plenty enough for two.”</p><p>Sherlock hates fish soup, especially the kind that has clear broth, but if it's John who makes it, he won't protest.</p><p><br/>
_____________<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>"Do you ever go to Pierowall for the evening?" Sherlock asks over steaming hot soup two hours later.</p><p>John had offered to open a bottle of wine, which Sherlock had declined on the basis of not using much alcohol. There are few such beverages he enjoys, and the cheap chardonnay John must have purchased from the off-licence in Pierowall would offend rather than delight. Chardonnay, when good, Sherlock finds acceptable; sauvignon blanc with its catpee aroma much less so. Cheap chardonnay tends to have what he'd describe as a subtle half-rotten pineapple tang, which makes him feel as though he's sucking on a cheap ice lolly. Not something to ruin fresh fish with. <em>Perhaps John's years of drinking have ruined his palate, or perhaps it was never very cultured to start with.</em></p><p>"I don't know shit about wine," John says while pouring them both some more water. It’s as if he’s read Sherlock's mind again. "I’m wholly dependent on shop attendants for recommendations now that I live alone.”</p><p>The absence of a name speaks louder than screaming it out would do, and the silence that follows this rare reference to a change in relationship status is curious. John’s retreat behind tightly closed lips is meticulously executed, thoughtful, conflicted. Sherlock’s throat constricts. Have they reached a point at which John needing to shut down Sherlock's line of enquiry would shatter this fragile attempt at neighbourly relations? Or, could he ask finally what's been burning a blister on his tongue?</p><p><em>No,</em> Sherlock decides. <em>A delay can only improve my chances of not being thrown out of this house</em>.</p><p>He focuses on his lunch. The potatoes in the soup are… potatoes. The fish is tasty since it hasn't been overcooked into something chewy and bland. There is the perfect amount of salt, and the dill John had added copious amounts of makes the broth more palatable than it has any right to be. A simple dish executed well. <em>I could get used to this</em>. Victor always wanted takeout, which Sherlock ordered on most days, anyway. It's odd how this sudden and unfamiliar domesticity of being cooked a meal consumed pleasant company is making him anxious about having to let go of this moment soon. He's done nothing of note since arriving here, nothing he would consider worthy of his time in London. All he's done is interact with two odd islanders and learn about the wildlife. Why does that make him feel more invigorated than a week's worth of interesting NSY cases?</p><p>Maybe Mycroft had sent him here so he could air out his brain, find a new focus, see how people live without any of city life's pretend necessities. <em>I should treat this as a learning experience</em>.</p><p>"Any plans for the rest of the day?" he asks John, keeping his tone calm, almost disinterested. He should return to his house after lunch, pretend he has things to go. The last thing he wants John to get wind of is how lost-at-sea he is, how clueless about biding his time in these surroundings. <em>Most of all, he can't know that no matter what he suggested as a shared activity, I'd say yes</em>.</p><p>Sometimes, Victor acted like Sherlock was a nuisance. Especially after sex.</p><p>"Saw some broken boards in the boathouse when I took out the cod rods. Thought I might repair those," John muses. "Thanks for the help," he adds.</p><p>"I didn't really do anything," Sherlock says, but John's expression makes him feel as though he's somehow said the wrong thing. "I should be thanking you for the…" he lifts up his sleeve. He'd managed to keep the bandages dry.</p><p>John pushes around a bit of potato on his plate. "How long are you here for? I assume you're not staying since you didn't really arrive in a moving van."</p><p>"Just a couple more days. I have some… things I must settle."</p><p>"Right."</p><p>John's shoulders find a determined set. The answer seems to have satisfied him.</p><p>Sherlock looks out the window. The glass is old; Sherlock recognises it as blown cylinder glass. It had been a cheap variety, judging by the waviness. It distorts the warm yellow sunlight coating the still sea into ripples resembling egg yolk. Were Sherlock an artist, he'd be tempted to paint it with broad, forceful watercolour strokes with very little water in the brush. Then, he'd use thin strokes to paint John standing by that table next to the boathouse, knife in hand and a cod held firmly down against the board, biceps flexing inside a worn-thin plaid shirt. Sherlock would immortalise the salt and black pepper in his hair, the worry and laughter lines etched on his features that are in constant motion. He'd capture that secretive half-smile that occasionally smooths through the creases that make John look older than his years. <em>In a crowd, he isn’t the first person one’s eyes would settle on, but after more careful inspection, he's so much more fascinating than what people consider a pretty face. John is not forgettable.</em></p><p>Sherlock thinks all this while keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the water's edge. He can't face John for the fear that John might be looking at him, might read something on his face that would be too much. If their eyes met right now, Sherlock would feel painfully self-conscious, perhaps even worried that John may have studied him in kind.</p><p>"Never answered your question," John suddenly says. "About the village."</p><p>Sherlock wants to tell him it doesn't matter, that he's more than happy to let John keep his secrets as long as he gets to keep the man's company.</p><p>But before he finds the words, John continues, "There's just the one pub, really, and when you've got an entry ban…" He shrugs and blows his nose into a piece of kitchen roll.</p><p>"Oh." Sherlock's lip quirks up. "Am I to deduce the village GP has a temper, then?" He has the distinct sense that John is making some vague point with this story. <em>This is the kind of man he is. He wants me to know that before… before what?</em></p><p>"There was a disagreement between me and a guy from Backaskaill. That's on Papa Westray."</p><p>"Is there some Scotland versus England type rivalry between them and Westray? I'm not aware of one."John looks imperious before melting into a grin, elbow on the table and fork waving in the air. "He just wasn't a very nice man."</p><p>Sherlock chuckles. "What would the villagers say, seeing their physician in such an altercation? I hope you at least won.”</p><p>"I'm a doctor; I know how to sprain people," John says.</p><p>Sherlock can't help the snort that escapes. "The Hippocratic Oath must be a burden on your bad days, I suppose."</p><p>John’s nose crinkles in amusement. "It was one punch. He threatened me first, though, after I told him the tourist girl he was trying to chat up and making uncomfortable was not appreciating his attention."</p><p>"A knight in shiny armour, then, rather than a brawler. Perhaps that Hippocratic Oath wasn't temporarily shelved, after all."</p><p>John swallows the rest of his glass of water. "How was I supposed to know that idiot was the barkeep's brother? If I want to go to a pub now, it'll have to be the one they run a few nights a week for the old folks. It’s not too bad, though, and I'm wicked at bridge."</p><p><em>So that's why he drinks alone</em>.</p><p>"Where do the patients go when you're not… available?" Sherlock asks. He's proud of how he'd scrambled to phrase this; he doesn't want to remind John that he's technically awol even today. He thinks it likely that John will return to work tomorrow. It's so odd to think that something must've happened yesterday to make a member of the normally dutiful British medical profession blow off their duties. Then again, judging by the receptionist's reaction, this isn’t the first time.</p><p>"They go to Papa Westray or mainland, just like they do outside surgery hours, anyway. The locals are used to not having the same access to all services that one might have in London."</p><p>"Do they ever come knocking on your door?"</p><p>"This one bloke showed up a few days ago," John says. His eyes meeting Sherlock's, whose stomach makes an odd sort of flutter.<br/>
John then rises from his seat, takes both their empty plates. "If you get bored, we could watch some footie tonight. I didn't spot a telly in the Drever house, so…"</p><p>"No, there's no television there," Sherlock hastily confirms. "I would enjoy that."</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. In Which Sherlock Establishes Some Rules</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock leaves John to his boathouse repairs and heads back to the Drever house. They'd agreed he'd return at six in the evening. Sherlock needs an afternoon for himself, too, since there is one thing he must sort out before being in John’s proximity again: having a proper wash. He's carrying the grime of six days without a shower, and while that may have been tolerable on a fishing trip, it certainly won't do for an evening in. What is worse is that Sherlock is convinced his hair will permanently be infused with the scent of brine unless it's washed. Never mind if he doesn't have any proper products save for the goop the village store had in their selection. It'll have to do. The main problem is that he has no shower. Standing starkers in the windy back garden, pouring warm water from a bucket onto his head does not entice, and he is sure as hell not going to traipse back to John's asking to use his facilities. Tonight won’t be a date, not really — for all he knows, John might be straight. What it is, is an invitation for male companionship, and Sherlock is at the point where he'll take any kind he's offered, never mind how far he’d be willing to take things. The thoughts that keep drifting through his head laced with hopes for more than a friendly encounter are nothing but the products of an idle mind that hasn't experienced in months the sort of high only sex can offer. <em>It's only natural fantasies should arise.</em> It’s nothing but biology, a chemistry he now recognises as highly destructive. Letting uncontrolled things smoulder in his psyche would be the emotional equivalent of setting fire to dry gunpowder. He knows turning back, withdrawing from the islanders, John included, would be the sensible thing to do, the thing his brother would advise him to execute.</p><p>
  <em>I’m not Mycroft.</em>
</p><p>He takes his tea into the sitting room. There, his ears perk up at a strange sort of faint, raspy sound. <em>Is it coming from the window? Or perhaps the wall? Could be mice.</em> Sherlock leans on his haunches, presses his ear against the peeling, striped wallpaper. It may have once been white and green but now, it's a faded mint and the sort of yellow paper develops with age and tobacco smoke. Sherlock wonders if it’s old enough that the green pigment might contain the toxic Scheele’s green — an acidic copper arsenite which had replaced copper carbonite -based older paint pigments in the 19th century. He makes a mental note to take a sample with him to London for some chromatography.</p><p>The sound he’s still hearing must be coming from outside. He stands up, gets as close as he dares to the window smudged with the human fat from countless fingerprints, and looks down. It's Edward the Abdicator, tugging at tall grasses growing on the side of the house and munching them as thoughtfully as a sheep with likely not the highest IQ of its species can manage. Sherlock knocks on the window and the ram looks up, its jaws ceasing to grind the plants into a pulp. Perhaps it's due to the near-rectangular pupils, but the look in its eyes is sardonic.</p><p>Sherlock opens the window and drops one of the apples he'd left on a plate on a side table into the tangled-up grass next to the ram. It spits out the grass it was chewing, cranes down its neck to sniff the offerings, and takes a tentative bite before emitting a loud, snort-like sneeze that catapults minuscule bits of snot and apple into Sherlock's face.</p><p>"You bloody shank––" Sherlock wipes his face with the sleeve of the long-sleeved black T-shirt he’s worn underneath a jumper. The print on the front of it sings the praises of Scotland; he'd purchased from the village shop. He realises laundry should be his second priority unless Angus can lend him a dress shirt. That's assuming the lighthouse-keeper even has any. <em>Maybe some operatives who've stayed here before might have left a few garments behind?</em> Then again, if they’d been dragged here suddenly and without any possessions just like Sherlock, the likelihood of Angus keeping a wardrobe full of MI6 cast-offs is unlikely.</p><p>Edward has retreated from the window and is now pulling at a wine someone years ago had painstakingly tied into two ropes attached to the rafters. Sherlock cannot imagine what nutritious value the withered, woody vine could possibly have, so it’s starting to look like the ram is just trying to get his dander up. Getting sprayed with sheep snot cements Sherlock's decision: since Angus is contracted to assist stranded agents, it's time Sherlock stranded himself in the man's bathtub.</p><p>He drinks half his tea, pours the rest into the sink, and puts his coat back on after slipping the hair cream and shaving kit into its pocket. It's time to find a bit of rope to use as a leash and escort Edward-the-hooved-devil back to the lighthouse. <em>At least returning that curly bugger will be a convenient excuse to pop in and ask for a favour.</em></p><p> </p><p>______________</p><p> </p><p>Two hours later Sherlock is startled awake, and it takes a moment to regain his bearings. He seems to have fallen asleep in the hot bath that is now barely even lukewarm. He finds it odd how being grimy had not bothered him during the first few days as much as it would have in London. Perhaps it’s because he'd been so cold and his scavenged clothes so heavy and layered that he hadn't noticed the bothersome sensations associated with not having bathed regularly. Or, perhaps some of his meticulous hygiene in London is based more on habit than necessity. After a full day marching the streets of London, it feels as though not just the dust and pollution clings to him but also the heaving masses of humanity, the stale condensation from air conditioning, and the constant head-pounding barrage of sight and sound have sealed him into a cocoon of bother. Maybe London exhausts him more than he's realised. <em>Here, by the sea, even dirt is… more pure</em>.Regardless, he wouldn’t join John Watson for an evening of undoubtedly tedious television smelling as he had before slipping into the bath. Now, the scent of cheap soap has replaced rather than eau de Westray.</p><p>He had worried whether the ancient boiler and the old pipes could even provide enough hot water for a full tub. The pipes began to rattle visibly when Angus had turned the system on, and there was a slightly metallic tang in the taste and an initially brownish discolouring in what spouted out of the tap but all that cleared out eventually. The water had made Sherlock’s limbs heavy, lulled him into a state of relaxation the likes of which he doesn't remember achieving in years. When had he begun living his life in a constant state of high alert, entangled in danger and suspicion, chronically nervously expectant of unpredictable things such as Victor's next visit? He rarely spent an entire evening at home, preferring to be out and about working, but when he was at his flat he often paced the floors like a ghost, playing guessing games and bargaining superstitiously with himself regarding whether it was likely that he’d heard a familiar knock on the door. He would never demand that Victor announce his visits beforehand — it would seem like Sherlock expected more than their casual affair, and he didn't want to give Victor the upper hand like that. They existed in a state of are-they-or-aren't-they because he had convinced himself it suited them both. Why tie himself to a person? A part of him <em>wanted</em> to feel those things for Victor, but his rational self begged to reject them. He loathed wanting things like that, things that made him vulnerable, slashed his carapace open for all to see. They made him little more than a creature of lust and other lowly desires — the sort of man he'd prided himself in never becoming.</p><p>Standing by the small mirror above a cracked sink in the dim light of a single bulb in the windowless bathroom, he catches himself thinking of John Watson. <em>The thoughts of an idle mind</em>. He grips his right shoulder with his left hand, rolls his head to get rid of muscle cricks. He'll let his hair dry without involving a tower to prevent the worst possible frizz, and do what the cheap supermarket-brand gel will allow. After he’d asked about borrowing some clothes, Angus had dug out a white, clean dress shirt with odd, wide sleeves that wouldn't look out of place in a vintage horror film. Paired with Sherlock’s suit jacket, it'll do. Perhaps he'll look odd visiting John-the-islander in such an outfit, but he wants to look his best.<br/>
'Stop preening, Mummy's getting annoyed', echoes his brother's voice in his head. <em>As though Mycroft didn’t frequently spend an hour tugging at his tweeds</em>.</p><p>Sherlock knows why he wants to impress John Watson. It's a safe act because most likely the man is straight enough to be oblivious to it. This game is for Sherlock, emotional stage props for a fantasy only he and his hand on his cock will be privy to later. <em>Imperious, unattainable.</em> He assumes that's what had attracted Victor: the thrill of the chase of something that's not supposed to be within one’s reach.</p><p>He runs his fingers through a knot in his curls, regarding his visage in the mirror wistfully. <em>I'm lying to myself.</em> He'd never had the upper hand with Victor, had he? With John Watson, if he guards his secrets carefully, he might convince himself he could have that control just this once.</p><p>He'd forgot to bring his only pair of clean underwear, so he'll wear none tonight. He sure as hell won't ask Angus to borrow him some; the old fool would probably offer him something along the lines of an embroidered codpiece. Sherlock had caught a glimpse of the man's bedroom and storage room when he'd asked for a towel and a shirt; that’s when Angus had led him into the bowels of the lighthouse’s annex. In the storage room stood an old, ornate, white-painted wardrobe, the doors of which wouldn't even close properly after being swollen by the moist sea air. Inside, the shelves were stuffed full of vintage clothes for both men and women: sleeping garments with delicate lace, moth-eaten velvet jackets, even a bustled black dress that must've been worn at funerals. <em>Do they belong to Angus' relatives, or are they relics of lighthouse-keeper families long gone?</em> Sherlock had wondered. Judging by what John had commented, there had never been a Mrs Angus. <em>Perhaps his mother's dowry linens are the only woman's touch he's ever felt.</em></p><p>Sherlock juts up his chin to tighten the skin for shaving. Surprisingly, Angus owns modern shaving cream in an aerosol bottle propped up on the edge of the sink. Sherlock dabs some of it on, wishing he had his moisturiser. After being out on the water all day, his skin will be raw and dry. John has a beard he keeps short. Sherlock has never minded stubble burns on his face, but his neck is too sensitive for being scraped like that, and his thighs–– God, no. Sherlock thinks about John's ring finger next while shaving. <em>What had the wife looked like? Surely it was a wife? Or could it be an ex-husband John has sought to conceal while residing here since he might assume these island-folk are old-fashioned and tight-minded? What does John like? What is his type?</em></p><p>Sherlock has never established what his own type is, he doesn’t think. He has always assumed he'd know it when he saw it, but how could he know what it's supposed to feel like? All he knows is that he's never quite stumbled so quickly and with so little grace into attraction as he recognises he's done with John Watson. Surely that must be just a Westray version of Stockholm syndrome. <em>John was my knight with white paint flecks on his worn jeans, that's all.</em></p><p>Tonight, John will watch sports while Sherlock will watch John like a spectator at an art exhibition. <em>I shall look but not touch</em>.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. In Which Someone Must Lead And The Other Follow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"You sea! I resign myself to you also,<br/>
I guess what you mean, <br/>
I behold from the beach your crooked fingers, <br/>
I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me.<br/>
We must have a turn together,<br/>
I undress, hurry me out of sight of the land,<br/>
Cushion me soft, rock me billowy drowse,<br/>
Dash me with amorous wet, I can repay you."<br/>
― Walt Whitman, "<em>Song of Myself</em>"</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He dares not show up before sunset. <em>I must a</em><em>void giving him the idea you're suspiciously eager to do this.</em></p><p>John opens the door with a kitchen towel in hand. His self-reliant male domesticity is in great contrast to how Sherlock had grown up, surrounded by female staff who would keep the family fed, clothed and their surroundings dustless and orderly. There was also a groundskeeper, who could probably manage effortlessly in these island surroundings.</p><p>John has also changed clothes into a black pair of jeans and a moss green jumper. Sherlock wonders if these are clothes from his old life some place else, things purchased for an evening out with his spouse and friends. <em>John must have had friends. He's just the sort.</em> His hair is just as messy in a windswept manner as before, and Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way.</p><p>He inhales when he realises he should have brought something. On offering of a beverage or snack, perhaps. Now, he's only brought himself as though that's something that ever surprises people positively.</p><p>John looks that way, though, and it's wondrous. "Come in, come in." He pats a bit of flour off his jeans. "I've baked a bit of something," he says apologetically.</p><p>Sherlock cannot fathom why he'd be embarrassed. Because of the flour? Because he's preparing food? Because he's offering something homemade instead of ordered in and catered? <em>As though I wouldn't eat it off his fingers, whatever it is</em>.</p><p>Is he really drawn to John Watson, or just anyone who's kind to him? He shakes his head as he enters as John steps aside. No, he doesn't feel like this about people, like he'd happily spend days just looking at them without things ever leading to more though he'd want them to, very much so. He is not a cautious person, but with John he's going to be endlessly careful if that guarantees extended proximity.</p><p>"Make yourself at home," John says. "I'll put the kettle on."</p><p>Sherlock sheds his coat and hangs it on a hook in the hall. John has discarded his shoes by the front door and is wearing a pair of woollen socks. Sherlock's wellingtons are too loose without a similar pair, but at least the ones he's wearing on top of his regular socks are black so they won't clash <em>that</em> terribly with his suit.</p><p>Sherlock wonders aimlessly around the quiet sitting room, wondering if John's invitation for television-viewing had been but a turn of phrase, since the mind-numbing contraption isn't even on.</p><p>He happens upon a low shelf with a few books and vinyl albums. On top sits a record-played that is plugged in so it must be functional. The books are mostly vintage; the topics are limited to navy history and other nautical matters, Scottish flora and fauna. The only ones published after 1970 are two paperback novels; John le Carré and Robert Ludlum are the authors. One still has a price tag from the village thrift shop attached. Sherlock wonders why there aren't any medical textbooks. Doctors seem to keep them even though all that knowledge is also conveniently available online, now. Perhaps it's because physicians trained before the new Millennium are not used to relying on that, and because of sentimentality associated with the university years.</p><p>Sherlock carries no such nostalgia for his time at Cambridge. He got his degree, that's all. Anything else on offer at these institutions than education is a waste of time. This is, of course, something he and Mycroft disagree on intensely. For Mycroft, university had provided the cornerstones of his network of powerful people and their offspring. 'Vital for someone building a career in intelligence', he keeps insisting to Sherlock. 'If that's the most important thing, then what do you even keep needing my help for?' Sherlock had asked him, and received a glare framed by a scrunched-up nose. His brother is so easy to rile up if one knows where to poke.</p><p>John returns from the kitchen to the sitting room warmed by flaming logs in the fireplace. He's carrying a tray from which he transfers two steaming mugs and two crystal tumblers of whisky onto the coffee table. Sherlock wonders if he bothers with such glassware when he binge-drinks alone.</p><p>"That's my Dad's collection," John says, having noticed Sherlock flipping through the albums.</p><p>"He had excellent taste in music," Sherlock comments, lifting out a Deutsche Grammophon recording from 1975 of Beethoven symphonies conducted by Carlos Kleiber. Kleiber had rarely participated in recording anything, and that particular album is legendary. Mycroft has a copy.</p><p>Next, he finds a Mravinsky-conducted vinyl from 1960 of the Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra of Tchaikovsky symphonies four and five.</p><p>"I remember when he found that in a shop in Glasgow. We went there to buy things for uni. He wanted to listen to it the moment we got home," John says, joining Sherlock by the shelf with an RAMC-logo mug cradled in his hands.</p><p>"Did he have musical training?"</p><p>"No. None available here, you know? He said he talked to Mum about looking into that when we moved to Liverpool, but she never…" John's lips tighten. "He just loved the stuff, you know. Whatever he could get his hands on. There're boxes of records in the attic; I should go through them but haven't got around to doing that yet."</p><p>"When did he pass away?" Sherlock puts the album back on the shelf.</p><p>"Four years ago."</p><p>John abandons his mug on the coffee table behind him, steps closer, and leans down to slide out one of the records. "Besides classical, this was one of his favourites." Reverently, careful not to touch the tracks, John takes out the disc and places it on the plate, then turns on the player. Soon, Leonard Cohen begins rasping one of his classics, <em>Take This Waltz.</em></p><p>"Harry — my sister, that is — says that she remembers this one evening when we all still lived here. She says it's the only thing she remembers of Mum and Dad being happy, when they were dancing to this."</p><p>John swallows, averts his eyes as though he's decided he's said too much. Now that they're standing close together, Sherlock can pick on certain clues which signal that the shot of whisky in the tumbler intended for John won't be the first he's consumed today. <em>Alcohol lowers inhibitions.</em></p><p>John's hands had been absolutely steady, though, as he'd carried in the tray, and his words are perfectly enunciated. <em>He can't have drunk much yet.</em> Sherlock decides to sip his awaiting shot as slowly as he can to discourage John from going overboard.</p><p>"I was too drunk at my wedding to dance. I only know waltz, anyway." John's chuckle rings hollow, devoid of mirth.</p><p>"I love it," Sherlock finds himself admitting. He wants to grab his mug to give his fingers something to do; he's at risk to start fidgeting because John is standing so close. "Dancing. Always have. We had to learn at school."</p><p>"And which school was that?"</p><p>"Eton." He tries to say the name nonchalantly, to not sound apologetic because he can tell John probably looks down his nose at such fortresses of class superiority.</p><p>"Eton's just boys, isn't it? How does that work?"</p><p>Sherlock shrugs. "We practiced among ourselves, of course. It teaches you a lot to experience both roles."</p><p>"So you know how to lead and… not lead," John suggests in an odd tone.</p><p>"I believe that's called following," Sherlock says with a smirk.</p><p>"I have a hunch you weren't very good at that."</p><p>
  <em>Oh, I can follow, if there is someone to whom I want to rescind the lead.</em>
</p><p>John picks up one of the tumblers from the table. The flicker of the flames hitting its crystal lines creates dancing, kaleidoscopic reflections on the wall.</p><p>As Sherlock receives the glass, John is watching him intently, eyes bright with curiosity and face flushed with warmth from the fireplace and the whisky. His fingers linger briefly underneath Sherlock's longer ones as they curl around the octagon.</p><p><em>Would he dance with me if I asked?</em> he wonders. He would never ask.</p><p>"That's a good light on you," John says quietly.</p><p>It's such an odd thing to say that Sherlock pushes it away, leaves it undeduced which is very unlike him. Instead, he sips the amber liquid, incendiary and rich on his tongue. It's peaty, likely from the distilleries on Islay. <em>Not suffocatingly so — clearly not Ardbeg; could be Bruichladdich or Caol Ila. </em>Sherlock had once spent eight days learning to describe and recognise the different varieties — for a case, of course. The murder victim had been a whisky expert, and he had been able to prove that he'd been poisoned with a substance introduced into one of his opened bottles, and the killer had then emptied the contents, cleaned the bottle and poured precisely as much replacement whisky into it as there had been prior to ingestion to cast off suspicion about the MO. The trouble was that whatever was in that bottle after the murder was something an expert of Joff Beadle's calibre would not have consumed voluntarily, let alone stored among his most prized possessions on the top shelf.</p><p>"You said there was a wedding," Sherlock says without thinking, then grimaces. <em>Alcohol lowers inhibitions</em>. <em>In for a penny, in for a pound. Did she find someone else? Popped her clogs? Turned out to be an international assassin, and you dumped that deceptive wench? What, John? What could have possibly chased you here?</em> "What happened?"</p><p>Silence reigns. Their eyes do not meet, but John doesn't physically recoil from the question. His taciturnity must be the best answer Sherlock's going to get, then. He tries to contend with it, but still feels that nagging pull of curiosity that's always been his vice. He knows he cannot tear down the shroud John hides his secrets under, but he still itches to try.</p><p><em>Look, but don't touch. </em>He wants John's story almost as much as he wants his body, wants to cherish and memorise the words he would be trusted with, just as he'd revere that skin. He can almost imagine reaching out to touch John’s salt-raw skin, to have a feel of that coarse hair, to slip a hand underneath the jumper to tug at a belt.</p><p>The recording has now arrived at the next track, <em>Dance Me to The End of Love.</em> It's an odd song in a 4/4 meter and reminds him of the Turkish folk dance of <em>hasapiko</em>. Sherlock had become familiar with several forms of Turkish folk music during a most tedious assignment from Mycroft in Istanbul. Instead of tailing some small-time spy, Sherlock had immersed himself in the city just as he cultivates his love affair with London. The achingly wistful violin in the background makes him miss his own instrument.</p><p>"How do you know so much about music, then?" John asks. "Posh school, I guess, but…"</p><p>"That, and violin lessons from an early age. Could have been a career."</p><p>He expects John to ask what made him decide against it or if he even seriously considered it, but John doesn't. As always, walls stand erect between them with very few openings for honesty and personal details. And they seem to be both avoiding those opportunities lest it's an arrow and not an extended, open palm that comes through.</p><p>"I guess I only know how to lead," John says, retrieving his own glass.</p><p>Just like many things John Watson has said to Sherlock, it sounds like a warning.<br/>
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</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. In Which A Beautiful Mistake Is Made</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two hours later, the television remains closed and the only soundtrack to their conversation is the heavy rain bleeding down the windows in the thick darkness outside the haven of the house.</p><p>Sherlock is laughing. He laughs like he hasn't laughed in years, and for so long that the funny story John had told him begins almost fading from memory, helped by the copious amounts of whisky they have consumed. As he chuckles, his skin is pulled taut against his features as though emaciated not by a lack of physical nourishment but by a lack of something he, astonishingly, is experiencing now: happiness.</p><p>He's never been good at being drunk. Either too self-aware to reach proper inebriation due to limiting his intake — or too soon tipping over the edge to sleepy and uncoordinated, he has never experienced the carefree laissez-faire which had seduced his university classmates to Cambridge's bars evening after evening. He was always the serious one, the viper-tongued one, the one who was always alone.</p><p>Until now. Until tonight. Until this moment in which John Watson is laughing with him rather than at him, his eyes set on Sherlock like someone who doesn't care if he’s caught staring. Before tonight, John dispensed his attention carefully, withdrawing in an instant if Sherlock tried to maintain eye contact for long. Now, John seems to be drinking in the sight of him, indulgent and more present in the moment than he's been in the short time Sherlock has known him. Before, it had felt as though John's mind moved between this plane and another freely, like ghosts passing through walls, often slipping beyond Sherlock's reach. Now, he's right here, anchored to the present by Sherlock's attention.</p><p>It feels oddly as though they could be old, comfortable companions and at the brink of something new and dangerous at the same time.</p><p>"You have a nice smile, William," John drawls, sloshing the dark amber in his glass. "You should use it more often. Looks like it doesn't get out much. Looks <em>real</em>, unlike the rest of your…" John flaps his hand, "…your thing. Those cheekbones and your clothes, your… all that <em>flounce</em> and your hair and that ridiculous coat."</p><p>"Me? <em>I'm</em> ridiculous?" Sherlock asks in mock horror. "<em>You</em> invaded Afghanistan!"</p><p>John giggles. "Who're you hiding from, then? Who'd you get shirty enough to get sent all the way to this pisshole?"</p><p>"I thought you liked it here."</p><p>"I belong here now. There's a difference."</p><p>There is an entire universe to unpack in that statement but, assisted by the liquor, Sherlock decides not to care. He doesn't want to disturb the peace, doesn't want to risk ruining John's good mood. Any conflict at all would just make him pull back into his shell. It's strange how John would accuse him of keeping up a front when it's John who guards himself so carefully.</p><p><em>You like my flounce</em>, Sherlock thinks with a grin. <em>Just like I love watching your features when you're thinking of something you like.</em></p><p>John has told him army stories tonight as well as strange and funny stories from the front lines of London's hospitals. What he doesn't tell Sherlock about is the intermittent tremor in his hand and why, when not quite this drunk, he looks away mid-conversation sometimes as though he's caught himself doing something he shouldn't when Sherlock cannot for the life of himself work out what that could be.</p><p>Sherlock has stopped caring too much about John not trusting him enough with his secrets. He can put that aside for now, especially since he hasn't even shared with the man the first name he actually uses. Sherlock doesn't want anything right now except for this moment to stretch like the sea outside, the end so far that the curve of the earth hides it from view. He wants this happiness to hide him from view of himself, to sustain an illusion that he could be a person who has all this as a constant in their lives. That he wouldn't have to be someone who must make do with such a limited collection of memories qualifying as human companionship that he could probably list all of them.</p><p>"What do you for fun, then? In London?" John asks.</p><p>"I enjoy my work." <em>Most of the time. Sometimes</em>. "I read. Play the violin."</p><p>"But that's… what about with friends?"</p><p>"I don't keep friends. Pointless."</p><p>"But that's… that's a bit lonely. Are you married?"</p><p>"No. Never have been."</p><p>"Is there… someone?"</p><p><em>Does… did Victor even qualify?</em> "If you can call it that. They died."</p><p>This seems to jolt John more than it should. <em>He hides it well, though.</em></p><p>"I'm sorry," John offers. "Was it recent? Is that why you left London? Did it have to do with why you were sent here?"</p><p><em>Yes, and no</em>. He'd stopped caring after Victor died, he'll admit to that. But he doesn't want to say the name out loud. Why would he have left London because Victor died? Is that what John had done? <em>Do people even do that? </em>In Sherlock's experience, people are more likely to cling to things and places after a death in the family than to abandon them. Sometimes, people even execute a strange mix of the two — Mycroft never really visiting their childhood home, but turning it into some hideous boutique hotel instead of selling it is a case in point.</p><p>"No. It was a few years ago. This is just… work-related. Temporary," Sherlock emphasises.</p><p>"Oh," John says, and leans forward to stoke the fire. His expression is odd — as though disappointment is battling relief.</p><p>"Were you… married?" Sherlock asks. He knows the answer.</p><p>"She died, too."</p><p>"I'm sorry."</p><p>"Like you said, it was a few years ago, but it's… complicated."</p><p>Sherlock doesn't quite understand how John's wife's death could be complicated. At least they were married. At least they knew what they were to each other. Establishing <em>why</em> someone died and who killed them can be complicated, but not the fact itself that someone has passed away.</p><p>He realises the conversation has turned sour, and that John has gone quiet. The walls are threatening to come up again just as their blood's alcohol level is descending.</p><p>Suddenly, he feels anxious beyond words. He longed for the truth, but now he doesn't want it. He feels as though the shadows in the corners of the room are suddenly John's ghosts trying to trap him, too, in their clutches. He's an intruder here, and the more he finds out about John Watson, the less he understands.</p><p>"I should go. It's late."</p><p>"Oh." John frowns, clearly disappointed. The hard lines which had formed on his features have softened quickly. "We never even got to watching the match."</p><p>"I enjoyed this far more than I would have watching grown men chase a stuffed-up piece of leather around a field," Sherlock assures him. He climbs to his feet, boneless from the whisky.</p><p>"You should borrow the raincoat again, put it on that woollen coat of yours. Wouldn't want to ruin it."</p><p>"It's had worse."</p><p>"I insist." John goes to fetch the raincoat, knocking his knee on the edge of the sofa since he's a bit uncoordinated, now.</p><p>When he returns, Sherlock has armoured himself into his Belstaff, coat collars propped up.</p><p>John places the second coat reverently on Sherlock's shoulders, but when Sherlock expects those hands to drift off so he can step forward and close the zipper, they stay put, even coil a bit into the fabric. Then, they reach around Sherlock and a warm, compact body presses against his back.</p><p>John is now <em>embracing</em> him, practically clinging to him. The odd sense of expectation Sherlock has felt all evening breaks and shifts. Within the circle of those arms, he turns, fearful and curious and painfully aware of his body awakening to the touch, neural pathways lighting up, peripheral vessels dilating and warming his limbs.</p><p>They're face to face now, and before Sherlock has time to analyse John's expression, he kisses Sherlock. It's desperate, coarse, beard scraping and prickling the sensitive skin of Sherlock's philtrum. John's fingers curl into a fist around the coat collar and pull him downwards to compensate for their height difference.</p><p>The coats are peeled back from Sherlock's shoulders, their torsos pressed together again. Soon Sherlock's black suit jacket is on the floor, too. John's fingers tangle and pull at his hair possessively, like seaweed tangling into the legs of an unsuspecting swimmer, trapping them in the deep. Sherlock doesn't want to liberate himself. No, he wants to drown in the deep of John's blue eyes, succumb to the fire coursing through him that makes him forget how cold he's been ever since he set foot on this forlorn island. John breathes into his neck, lets out a keening grunt like a boat ground against a pier in the dark night of a winter storm.</p><p>"Please," John begs, lips moving against the sensitive skin on Sherlock's neck. "Say yes."</p><p>Sherlock can barely register the words, lost in the roar of a gale of desire in his head. "Yes," he manages shakily, eyes drifting closed as John starts to suck and bites at a sinewy spot on his neck close to his ear. Pain and pleasure mingle like a plunge at wintertime into the Thames — so cold it feels oddly like hovering a palm above a candle. "Yes, John."</p><p>He must say yes, because if he doesn't, then John won't look at him that certain way anymore, won't drink in the sight of him as though no one else even existed.</p><p>John says his name, his false name, and Sherlock is too lost to correct him. His hands, his mouth, it's not enough to touch all of John, yet he must try. He's hard, straining against his trousers and grateful that his cock is not confined by pants as well. Every kiss, every touch, every push, every grind and every press against John's form is like a wave hitting harder and higher and higher. <em>Is it even possible to want something so much and not quite realise it before it happens?</em></p><p>John turns him around in his arms, pins him between his hips and the peeled wallpaper. He can feel John's chest heaving against his now bare back — how and when his shirt had been removed, he has no idea — and John is breathing heavily into his neck curls. A hand reaches around Sherlock's waist to fumble with his fly. <em>Could John be inexperienced in such things, or just drunk enough that he's having trouble with a bog-standard zipper?</em> Sherlock grunts and flinches when a hand is shoved unceremoniously into his trousers, and when John's calloused fingers wrap around his cock, he knows he's done for. Thoughts are turning to treacle, his thighs are shaking with arousal and adrenaline. After only a few tugs of the circle John has formed with his fingers, Sherlock comes, and it nearly knocks his feet from underneath him.</p><p>Perhaps it is just John's compact body keeping him pinned that allows him to stay upright. To wonder where he spills himself — floor, John's hand — never even crosses his mind. He'd worry about his clothes if his mind wasn’t drawing a blissed-out blank. He can't believe what has just transpired.</p><p>When reality finally begins creeping in, judging by what he can feel at his left buttock, John's is now working at his own cock. He comes with a thigh-shaking groan and rests his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder before pulling back. The separation of their bodies feels like a cold front.</p><p>That old, familiar feeling of being alone and without whatever he'd set out to search for tries to set in, but Sherlock pushes it away. Had he wanted this to happen? Yes, absolutely. Had he wanted it to happen like <em>this</em>? He's not sure. What even were the possible scenarios that could have ended like this, and how could he have achieved them? Panic and lingering arousal are now inseparable; the tide had taken him and he's swimming for his life trying to work out what to say, what to do. He had braced his forearms against the wall, and he now leans his forehead against it as well.</p><p>Footsteps recede behind him. Wind howls in the rafters, rain is beating against the door. Sherlock calls out John's name but there is no answer, just a momentary change in the shadows in the kitchen around the corner that’s lit only by the glow of the embers in the hearth. John is there, but he's silent and restless and in retreat, and it is then that Sherlock realises he has become an unwelcome guest.</p><p>He picks up the raincoat from the floor, considers leaving his shirt on the floor and covering his bare torso with just the raincoat in a hurry to get out. He'd have to carry his Belstaff bundled up under his arm, but it would get wet in this storm. It shall stay here with the thousand questions Sherlock wants to ask, but knows he shouldn't. It is beginning to seem likelier and likelier that John Watson never had any answers for him.</p><p><em>I should have known better</em>.</p><p>He bites the inside of his cheek. "It's Sherlock, by the way," he tells the walls and the peeling wallpaper and the man who cannot even look at him after making him come. "My name's not William, it's Sherlock."</p><p>Without expecting a reply, he opens the door into the darkness, and steps out into the pelting rain and the wind that whips his curls violently against his forehead.<br/>
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. In Which Much-Needed Truths Are Revealed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I started all of the wars<br/>
I've been getting messages from my deep waters<br/>
I'd be a resentful caretaker<br/>
So blame me for your false indicators</p>
  <p>— Banks: "<em>Poltergeist</em>"</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <strong>
    <em><br/>
— Four weeks earlier at 221b Baker Street —<br/>
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</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>"What are you doing here?"</p><p>Mycroft sighs. "I had hoped your work today would keep you out of the house for longer."</p><p>"So that you could <em>what</em>? Raid my home? Mycroft, what the <em>hell</em>?"</p><p>"I’m afraid a claim has been made for a missing item of Mister Trevor’s and this is the likeliest place for it after we searched all the places he frequented for work. It's a family heirloom he had been gifted with and never took with him on abroad assignments."</p><p>Mycroft had always referred to him as just Victor, not <em>'Mister Trevor</em>' — until now. He called all of his other sycophants by just their surnames.</p><p>"A claim? Made by who?"</p><p>Mycroft glances around the room to survey the bustle of MI6 staff wearing disposable gloves going through Sherlock's belongings. Unlike Metropolitan police staff, they are at least being careful to put items back precisely the way they were to cast off suspicion. "You may think of this as a formality. I know he always came here instead of inviting you to his home."</p><p>"Been watching us on the cameras you have illegally installed, then?" Sherlock emphasises the word 'illegal', but the intruders — especially not his brother — don't react visibly. And why should they? <em>Bloody Spooks</em>. "I loathe to repeat myself as much as you do, but you've driven me to it: <em>a claim made by who</em>?"</p><p>"Mrs Trevor," Mycroft says plainly, and opens and closes Sherlock's violin case on the side table.</p><p>"His mother?"</p><p>The way Mycroft pinches his lips together tells Sherlock he’s wrong, and that leads to a deduction about the reason for the secrecy surrounding this search operation.</p><p>"I am sorry, brother mine."</p><p><em>No, you're not</em>. His heart a clenching fist and a fluttering bird at the same time, Sherlock manages to parse together the words: "You told me there was no funeral."</p><p>"You had been through enough. I didn't want to upset––"</p><p>"Me or <em>her</em>? You didn't want to upset <em>which</em>? I haven't been through <em>anything</em>, because Victor and I wasn't <em>anything</em>––"</p><p>"As evident in the suddenly risen pitch in your voice, the quaver in your lip and your sudden loss of eloquence."</p><p>“You said: <em>there is no body and no next of kin so there won't be a funeral</em>. Lie?"</p><p>"We could hardly allow you to find out about Victor's marital status at a church service and make a scene. It appears that your attempts to signalling to Victor that, like him, you wanted to keep things casual, were more successful than you really wanted. Why tell you the truth about a wife if it was never going to amount to anything beneficial? If he wanted to leave her for you, he had ample time to do just that."</p><p>That's when Sherlock's rage boiled over and he shoved his brother against the wall, making the headphones perched on a bison skull hung up on the wall rattle. "You could have told me!"</p><p>"So that you could take out on me your frustration over the fact that you couldn't bring yourself to voice certain things to him when he was still alive?"</p><p>Sherlock removed his forearm from crushing his brother's windpipe. The smarmy bastard simply straightened his tie and acted as though nothing of note had just happened.</p><p>"I would have just… watched from…" Sherlock tries, wanting still to grab the nearest MI6 minion and push them down the stairwell.</p><p>"Neither of us has ever put any stock on such cultural rituals as weddings and funerals, and there's certainly no need for some thespian spectacle of grief now. Forget Victor Trevor and move on."</p><p>It was ridiculously, crushingly logical. Victor was a spy. He lied for a living. It explained the odd lengths of his visits, the fact that he never opened his home to Sherlock, the need for detachment and the lack of promises of a future. It explained the lack of anything resembling commitment. And Sherlock had lied to himself, too, that he didn't want it. And the realisation was a punch of unadulterated devastation to realise he wanted it even more now that he knew he couldn't have it — that he'd never even stood a chance because the position by Victor's side was already taken. He'd acted as though Victor was some higher being risen above such concepts as relationships, Sherlock his dedicated disciple.</p><p>In the end, he was just an inconvenient secret, an inconsequential indiscretion. Victor had just been blowing off steam with him, and what they had was as thin as that dissipating vapour. Every fracture, every dent Sherlock had expected naively that Victor would repair once he came to his senses about the nature of their relationship would always remain. In fact, the cracked vessel of their union was nothing but the equivalent of a note in a glass case in a museum left in the place of a removed object. It was a stand-in for something the spectator shouldn't expect to appear within the time they had at their disposal — a promise without delivery. Victor never repaired anything, and now, dead, he'd caused even more carnage somehow.</p><p>"I am sorry, brother mine."</p><p>“Fuck you both,” Sherlock tells him, marches into his bedroom to stand in the middle of the dusty rug in the dark, shaking.</p><p>When the flat finally grows silent after the front door closes behind the intelligence team, he recovers Victor's watch where he’d hid it behind a wall panel. Then, he grabs a glass paperweight and smashes the watch to bits.</p><p><br/>
______________</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock assumes never to see John Watson again. His plan is to withdraw into the Drever house, save for walks outside, and bide his time until his abundant-waste-of-space of a brother deigns to liberate him from this prison.</p><p>He refuses to think about John Watson, digs his nails into his palms whenever his mind slips, and tries to make sense of what had happened. He tells himself it's nothing different from the men he's been with in London. He had no reason to expect things with John to have a different outcome. He tries to tell himself he should be proud, to feel lucky for getting what he wanted, in a way.</p><p>
  <em>But was it what I wanted?</em>
</p><p>Time moves slowly and it moves fast; fast when he manages to retreat into his Mind Palace, to reorganise things there, to brood within his anger for his brother, for Victor and the universe. He refuses to build a room there for John — he needs not one more altar of regrets in those empty, echoing halls.</p><p>Time moves slowly when he remembers that he still doesn't know when this pointless torment will end. The view from the window has lost its novelty, and the shadows in the corners of the rooms seem longer in the evenings.</p><p>He removes his stitches with old scissors he disinfects with a lit match. The wound is closing, has scabbed, and is showing no signs of infection as far as he can tell. He hopes he's removed the stitches before they'd leave a railroad track scar. He wishes for no permanent marks of John Watson's existence on his skin. The memories are enough.</p><p> </p><p>______________</p><p> </p><p>One of his walks three days later takes him to a place John had told him about: Bronze-age burial mounds southwest of the castle. They have not been excavated and aren't even signposted. Sherlock can't say that prehistory interests him particularly, but it's one local sight he hasn't explored yet.</p><p>En route is a fork in the road leading to one of the island's several old, small stone churches. It must be Sunday since the bells begin to sound, and a gaggle of parishioners erupts from the doors.</p><p>Sherlock freezes when he recognises a familiar form among them. <em>John</em>. He hastens his steps, but the area is nothing but overgrown fields and grasslands. There is nowhere to hide.</p><p>And John is looking straight at him. Sherlock juts up his chin, narrows his eyes. Makes not a move.</p><p>John lifts his hand a bit in a tentative greeting, and Sherlock knows he must now stand here and endure whatever will transpire next. John is walking — <em>walking, not striding, hesitant, not enthusiastic</em> — towards him.</p><p>Sherlock squares his shoulders, thinks about London, about crime scenes, about how he conducts and carries himself when he has to deal with the likes of Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson and everyone else who loathes him. Who he loathes.</p><p><em>I dislike John Watson</em>, he tries on for size. It's a lie.</p><p>John is licking his lips, but it's different from that evening. He doesn't look like he's anticipating something salacious to pass between them — instead, it's dryness of mouth caused by the autonomous nervous system. <em>Good. Serves him right</em>.</p><p>"Look, maybe you don't… maybe you're not interested in hearing this, but…" John starts.</p><p>"Why do people always say such things and then continue droning on, anyway? Why, John? They say 'no offence' when they're perfectly aware an offence is precisely what is about to be committed, and they say 'I know you don't owe me an explanation' but expect one, anyway. It's illogical and infuriating. It's as though the lot of you just can't help yourselves, have no self-control." His throat is tight, the timber of his voice higher than usual. He's betraying his own nervousness.</p><p>John worries his lip, glances around as though expecting eavesdroppers. "I thought I might owe you an explanation, that's all."</p><p>"Yet you elected <em>not</em> to give me one until I embarrassed you by seeing you exit that church."</p><p>"It’s a kirk."</p><p>"Whatever."</p><p>Sherlock lets his gaze sweep the small graveyard surrounding the church and wonders what it would be like to only leave one's mark here, to be born and die here. <em>Is that what John wants, or thinks he needs?</em></p><p>"You believe in God, then? Go ask for forgiveness for your sins every Sunday?"</p><p>"I don't think I can afford not to give it a go. Where are you headed?" John then asks hastily, as if he thinks he's said too much.</p><p><em>Sherlock is tired of guessing games. </em>"The mounds near Tuquoy Bay you told me about."<em> I wouldn't have gone looking for them if it wasn't for you.</em> Awareness of this is hateful.</p><p>"I'll show you the way?" John suggests amicably.</p><p>Sherlock shrugs. "It's a free country."</p><p>"You're angry. I get that."</p><p>"Would you have sought me out, talked to me if you hadn't seen me from the <em>kirk</em> steps, or did you hope to avoid me until I disappeared? That's why you asked first whether I’d be here for long. Only after I told you I’d be leaving, you invited me over. You made the decision about what could happen based on the fact that I'd be gone, didn’t you?"</p><p><em>God, it's so obvious in hindsight</em>.</p><p>Sherlock makes a point by striding off in the sea's direction, but he does glance behind him to see if John is following. The relief he feels when he sees the man trailing his steps makes his heart lurch: as usual, he's trapped by it, trapped in games he knows he'll lose and be left a wreck. It's not <em>in for a penny, in for a pound</em> for him when it comes to dealing with other people — he's that idiot newcomer at the poker table pushing all their markers in with a suicidally reckless grin on their face.</p><p><em>'You shouldn't be so careless with your affections'</em>, Mycroft told him the night Sherlock had learned of Victor's death. <em>'Or else you'll have no one but yourself to blame.</em>'</p><p>"<em>Shut up</em>," Sherlock snarls at that voice in his head from behind clenched teeth and hopes John won't hear the words.</p><p>"I haven't been with a man in public," John calls out plainly behind him, and Sherlock slows his steps. "Dated, I mean, or anything like that, just… just these momentary things. In the army. At uni. Before. I dated women, but I sometimes… with men."</p><p>"You're going to blame internalised homophobia, then? Take them from behind while trying to convince yourself you’d rather be sticking it in a woman?" Sherlock mutters, knowing it's loud enough for John to hear perfectly well.</p><p>He hears John's steps on the path stop and turns to face him.</p><p>"Wow. Um…" John's eyes go wide, then he shakes his head. "No. I just… that's all I ever wanted with a bloke, I think. Just couldn't imagine how it could be more. You can't really build a future on that, can you?"</p><p>The dagger of John's words plunges in, twists a bit for good measure.</p><p>"No," Sherlock confirms mockingly, venomously. "No, of course you can't build a life with another man, because you couldn't go flaunt that at some <em>kirk</em> on Sunday you frequent, for pretending you're like people you have classified as safe and normal, even though you stick out like a sore thumb for not belonging among them. It's all over you like a foul smell, John, that you're not supposed to be here."</p><p>"Look who's talking," John scoffs.</p><p>"I'm not here voluntarily," Sherlock informs him and sticks his hands in his pockets.</p><p>"And you think <em>I</em> am?!" John shouts.</p><p>Sherlock whirls around to face him, brows hitched towards his hairline. Finally, an honest reaction, a non-calculated one. <em>This could actually lead somewhere instead of strangulating platitudes and excuses.</em></p><p>Sherlock says nothing, just waits. They're facing each other, standing close enough for it to be a challenge but not close enough for it to feel confined or threatening.</p><p>"Her name was Mary," John says quietly. To Sherlock, he looks as though he's suddenly had the stuffing pulled out.</p><p>"<em>'Her name was Mary.</em>' What's that supposed to mean? Is her name somehow supposed to make me feel pity for her for having a bisexual husband, for make me feel guilty over seducing you to cheat on a ghost? <em>Did</em> you cheat on her?"</p><p>What is it that allows him to be this vitriolically honest? He never spoke like this to Victor. Perhaps, with Victor, he assumed he had something to lose. With John, he has nothing.</p><p>"Yeah," John admits sheepishly.</p><p>"And now you've removed yourself to this barren bloody rock so you wouldn't get tempted again, even though she's dead? You do realise she can't see or hear what you do or with whom?”</p><p>John pins him down with his gaze, irritated visibly by his diatribe. "Look, I know I was an arse the other night––"</p><p>"No, I do believe you made that of me. Almost literally."</p><p>"Ha bloody ha. Will you listen? You can shout at me later if you still feel like it? Wouldn't a detective want all the facts before they passed judgement?"</p><p>Touché, but Sherlock is still too angry to stay silent. "That's assuming I have interest in passing judgement. I solve crimes and find missing things and I try to be emotionally uninvolved in all of it because that wouldn’t improve my results. I don't care what the people who hire me do with the truth I deliver to them."</p><p>John crosses his arms. “But you do care about the truth.”</p><p>"Go on, then," Sherlock says with a flick of his wrist. "Convince me why you don’t have the right for anything else than a quick shag in the dark on a rock some ancient sea god spat out."</p><p>John draws a deep breath, lets his arms drop to his sides. "Like I said, her name was Mary, and we had a daughter named Rosie. And they're dead because of me."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Now we know — at least partly — where both our leading men are coming from in terms of this rocky, delicate relationship they seem to be trying to construct. The Banks quote at the start of the chapter also reveals where the story gets its title.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. In Which We Learn About John's Past</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em><br/></em>Sherlock pivots on his heel, his momentum gone, punched out by the words John has just spoken. "What?"</p><p>He hates being surprised like this when it's not about a case, hates such traps being sprung under him. He has no idea what to say except to ask for more information. "How?" he demands.</p><p>John swallows, his gloveless fingers curling at his side. It looks like a reflex, something triggered by a memory. Conditioned. "I was drunk. We got into an accident. That's pretty much it."</p><p>"Accident, what <em>sort</em> of accident?"</p><p>"What kinds of accidents do people who are drunk usually get into?"</p><p>"I don't know about <em>usually</em>, but <em>generally</em>, they get into all kinds. I've a physician friend who says a frightening percentage of trauma patients are inebriated or the victims of accidents caused by inebriated people." Molly's patients are now always dead, but once, she'd worked in London's emergency rooms like all junior doctors.</p><p>Sherlock has never understood how someone could fail to notice being drunk. He hates the cotton-like sensation and avoids it, mostly. That night with John had been… whatever it had been. Ample evidence that getting drunk is <em>not</em>something a civilised person should do. It has consequences, a fine example of which is shifting his feet in front of him right now.</p><p>"We hit another car," John says. "All I got was a concussion. Mary and––" he breathes out, "yeah."</p><p>John starts walking again, and Sherlock hurries after him. They've reached the edge of the Bay of Noup, a vast sandy beach far below. They'll have to reach the tide-licked rocks on the open north side of the bay to get to the ancient site comprising a broch — hollow-walled drystone roundhouse — and a suspected burial mound. There is a famous one on Westray called the Knowe O'Skea but water level has been so high that it's been impossible to access from mainland. That's what John had told him, pointing him to this less known site, instead.</p><p>Why does he listen to John like that?</p><p>"Look, I find it difficult… this sort of thing," John says, swipes at the edge of his eye. His voice stays steady, but his jaw is tightly set.</p><p>"If you didn't, I doubt you'd have retreated here," Sherlock says. He has a thousand questions — or at least twenty-two — but he realises that if he pushes John, the man will just clam up. Perhaps he should offer a truth of his own to level their playing field. Sherlock hates sports metaphors but this particular one — often used by the DI who he freelances with at the Met — he finds very descriptive. "My name's not––"</p><p>"I heard you. I'm sorry about last night. Just realised I never said so. I hope I didn't–– that we didn't do anything you didn't––"</p><p>"I wanted it," Sherlock says plainly, "but I should have anticipated there would be fallout." He had wanted it, wanted John, not just his body but the rest of it, too, but he hadn't wanted this, hadn’t wanted whatever is transpiring right now. He can pick up on the moral hangover that’s seeping out of John's pores like sweat.</p><p>They reach the headland, its ragged grey rocks sloping gently towards the sea. The wind isn't very brisk today, not on this side, but the waves still break into white foam at the edge. There's a nearly overpowering scent of decaying seaweed, and under their feet grow buttercups, clover, thrift, bird's foot trefoil and daisies, still in flower. Oystercatchers are wading close by, not caring about two men standing reticently close by. A seal notices them on the outer rocks, slips into the water and disappears into the sun-glittering waves. It would be a beautiful day if Sherlock wasn't somehow chilled to the bone of everything he feels right now.</p><p>How should he navigate these waters of curiosity, disappointment, attraction and déjà vu. For a moment, before John had spoken, a giddy sort of anticipation — <em>presque vu, if you may</em> — had begun to grow, but now, he's not sure at all what to do with John's verbal offerings. He has learned that calling someone's death dull out loud is not on, and that's not quite… <em>Why am I so disappointed?</em></p><p>Maybe because it's not really an answer. "Why are you here, then?"</p><p>"I thought that was obvious," John says, confounded. His eyes are tracking a fishing guillemot. "I just… I hadn't come here since Dad died. Seemed like the thing to do. They all blamed me, I'm sure. <em>I</em> blamed me. Didn't think I could just stick around. Couldn't stick around. Asked a mate to pack my clothes. The house, our house, is still in Hampstead. They've probably cut off electricity by now."</p><p>John shrugs with the sort of resignation Sherlock has seen in people who've rescinded control over their life to the bottle. Or the needle. He can tell, because he has dabbled with such a lifestyle.</p><p>It's still not a complete explanation, what John has given him.</p><p>"Mary was a woman," Sherlock starts, then realises how idiotic that sounds. "Why would you–– let me rephrase." He clears his throat, shoves his hands into his coat pockets. "Yesterday was not the first time you've been with a man." He phrases it as a statement, not a question. People love to contradict false claims about themselves.</p><p>John's chuckle is as bitter as a preserved lemon. "Yeah, no. There were… others. This one guy in Afghanistan. Got a bit serious. He got me transferred. I was really pissed off at him for that, even though I knew it was the right thing to do for the both of us. It's not that bad in the service these days if you like men, but it's still not…"</p><p>"He got you transferred? I assume this means he was your commanding officer?" That would make things complicated even for a heterosexual couple in the army, Sherlock assumes.</p><p>"I'd extended my contract beyond what I originally agreed on with Mary. She wasn't happy. Even less so when she found out about us."</p><p>"She chose to continue the marriage?"</p><p>"We had Rosie. And I thought that what we had was… good enough. But it wasn't, not really. Never had been."</p><p><em>So you drank until things truly turned sour</em>, Sherlock concludes the story in his head.</p><p>He makes his way to the neat, round structure by the water's edge made of limestone slabs. There's a dirt floor to the low, roofless building. Not much to see — the principal attraction for a non-archaeologist is the age of the thing, that it has withstood the elements out here for so long. <em>Were this in London, someone would have built a museum around it years ago</em>. The outer wall is low enough that when Sherlock stands inside the structure, he can still see John.</p><p>"When was this?" Sherlock asks. "When did they… pass away?" Sometimes bluntness bring out the answers, but John looks exhausted, ready to crumble, and when people are like that, euphemisms are appropriate, at least according to DI Lestrade who has delivered many a lecture on the finer points of communication to Sherlock over the years.</p><p>John takes a seat on a smooth, rose quartz -pink rock near the broch. "Three years ago."</p><p>Sherlock frowns at the horizon, shielding his eyes from the sun with the edge of his hand. <em>That doesn't make sense. Causing death by careless driving while under the influence carries a penalty of years of imprisonment up to fourteen, a fine and a ban from driving for at least two years.</em> How could John have been here for much of the three years that have passed? <em>Did he flee the scene and never got caught? When he got hired as a GP, wouldn't his information appear in the system and trigger some sort of warning? </em>Then again, government systems are often so archaic or not digital at all that Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if the NHS and the police's network wouldn't interact at all. But wouldn't someone have alerted the GMC, leading to John's medical licence being revoked?</p><p>
  <em>Is he a fugitive? If yes, why hasn't he asked me to keep his secret?</em>
</p><p>Suddenly, Sherlock realises something <em>he</em> hasn't said. "I'm sorry. About your family." <em>I lost someone, too,</em> he almost says, but it's not the same, is it? Not at all. Victor was just… Victor.</p><p>"Not as sorry as me," John says. He stands up. "Maybe it makes sense to you, maybe not, but I don't think I'm good for anyone. You don't get second chances, not when someone dies. You don't get to try again, so I shouldn't. It's just… really lonely out here and when I met you I…" John's eyes go wide, "Fuck, I didn't mean it like that. I mean, I really like you. But it's… it's too complicated for me, which would make it complicated for you. For us. I don't even know what you were looking for, and I'm probably making a fool out of myself for even implying that someone here might have been thinking of more than we… what we did."</p><p>"That's the worst version of <em>'it's not you, it's me'</em> I've heard," Sherlock says and steps out of the broch.</p><p>"You're leaving, aren't you?" John reminds him. "We both entered into this knowing that you wouldn't be here for long."</p><p>Sherlock doesn't think he had <em>'entered into anything'</em>, at least not with rational consideration. Maybe his idiot brother <em>is</em>right in that he stumbles head-first, cock ready, into situations that'll only break him into pieces.</p><p>"You shouldn't have come to the door that day. Why did you?" John asks, and his tone is odd. As though he blames Sherlock for all this, somehow.</p><p>"Don't act as though it's all me. It's your fault, too, for coming here. For looking like that. For being the way you are." He steps closer to loom just at the edge of Sherlock's personal space.</p><p>"You're a detective, hm? What did you think of me before you showed up at my door? What did you read on me, analyse and all? You <em>knew</em>, didn't you. Somehow, you lot always know. Maybe it's because it's all you think about."</p><p><em>'You lot'</em>. At least John hadn't used any of the worse words. Sherlock finds himself surprised that John's obvious difficulties with his own sexuality haven't materialised in their conversation much yet. Here it is, though, the polarisation. The accusation. The stereotypes. The holding oneself above <em>all those real gays</em>. It's tedious. There is a definite sense of punishment in John's statements he detests, and he wants to protest that there are many things he thinks about besides and instead of sex such as what it would like to keep bees on such a barren island, how far Mycroft is in sorting out the mess he's in and what John's arm would feel like draped over his waist as he woke up in the morning. He's never been a part of any group because people don't generally want his company, so any rules he may have adhered to in terms of romantic conduct would have been by accident. Sherlock doesn't understand a lot about people, but he knows this: after the desperate, guttural sound John had made as he spent himself in his own hand, shoved between them where he'd pushed Sherlock face-first against a wall, John hadn't wanted him to stay. And that is much more important and much more hurtful than his general ideas about gay people, because it's personal. The shame of rejection he had felt as he made his way to the Drever house had little to do with his gender in that John could have just as easily rejected a woman. John had made him feel like a non-person, just a body to be used, and somehow, trying to explain why is making things better <em>and</em>worse. This is not what he'd imagined when he'd first dared to imagine John's calloused fingers on his skin.</p><p>The mystery of John Watson is now solved — at least most of it — and it's nauseatingly disappointing in its banality. Tragic, yes, devastating, absolutely, but somehow… there is nothing in it for Sherlock to grasp, to justify getting involved. No footholds for his affections towards John. John is a walled-off castle with the bridge across the moat raised, isn’t he? He’s clung to his loss like a barnacle to a rock. Lestrade would tell him off for describing someone losing their family in such insensitive terms, but those people never existed for Sherlock. His only connection to them is through John, and they’re what’s keeping him from John, so although he recognises his resentment towards them as selfish, he cannot help it. He’d resented Victor’s wife, too, with every fibre of his being, even though she’s never really done anything to him.<br/>A crushing sense of isolation begins to sets in with Sherlock like an invisible veil between them. He hasn't felt like this on Westray, not before this moment. Before, despite his irritation at having to be here, he could imagine still a world of possibilities in his existence here, mysteries unsolved, hope of some beacon of light in the darkness that could light his way towards a future he does not know when to expect to begin.</p><p>Perhaps he'd just hung way too many hopes on John Watson, too fast. He doesn’t even understand why. Is he simply hung up — or perhaps hung over — on Victor?<br/>No. He knows himself better than that. Were John just a convenient warm body, this conflict wouldn’t bother him. He wouldn’t be as angry as he still is. He's angry, because he didn't ask for any of this but accepted it into his life, anyway, and John seems to blame him for things with which he had nothing to do at all. John has etched, in invisible ink, his name of Sherlock's body, and there is no way to remove it now.</p><p>"I heard you… Sherlock," John says quietly. He reaches out, hesitant, evidently not quite sure if he’s welcome. In the end, he settles a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I didn't plan it. I didn't plan to be with you and then push you away. I just… I didn't decide on some expiration date, I didn't invite you over because you were leaving. It just felt safer to know if I ruined this, if I screwed this up, and I wouldn't have to avoid you for the rest of my life. I've enough things to try to avoid in my head, hm?"</p><p>Is this enough? Is this a good enough explanation, a good enough apology? Damn John Watson, damn him to hell, because Sherlock's bones still hum with the desire to touch him back, to trace those worry lines etched on his features, to kiss away that stale devastation that shrouds him. Why should he care now about deadlines and timetables and practicalities and promises, when he had cared about none of that with Victor? Why does he want such a framework, now, for structuring his feelings? Is it because he's afraid they'll run rampant again?</p><p>He can't control his heart. It beats, wild and boundless and free, free to crush itself on these rocks, to sink into the depths or, if he's lucky, soar until the end comes, whenever that is. Being careful with his heart had just made him lonely. Being careless with it had at least given him Victor. <em>Better to have loved and lost…?</em></p><p><em>Damn it all to hell</em>, Sherlock thinks. <em>To hell with Mycroft and his religious rationality. To hell with Victor, to hell with the bottles John is drowning himself in. To hell with regret.</em></p><p>Instead of flinching and retreating, John meets him eagerly half-way when Sherlock steps forward to crush their lips together.</p><p> </p><p>_________________</p><p> </p><p>"I can't want something I can't keep… what I shouldn't keep. You don't belong here, you never did; I'm lonely and you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I couldn't help myself. Can't help myself," John says breathlessly in the dark of his bedroom. Though it's the afternoon, now, the light is low in the room with the curtains drawn.</p><p>Their clothing discarded, Sherlock cannot read John any better than before; <em>naked does not mean revealed</em>. Before Victor, he'd agreed to sex out of necessity, out of curiosity, out of misguided gratitude and out of the assumption that it was a prerequisite for anyone wanting to tolerate his company. With the strangers he'd been with before and after Victor, sex had never been meaningful or very pleasurable, especially not at the same time. He'd hated admitting to himself that familiarity was something that elevated sex with Victor above the rest.</p><p>Now, he faces another revelation as he reaches for John's hand to pull him on top of him on the bed. He's never <em>wanted</em> — not like this. Not in a way that turns his thoughts into static. He wouldn't try to swim away from a riptide if John was still caught in it, wouldn't step away from an oncoming car were their lips pressed together.</p><p>It's heady. Reckless. Intoxicating in a way he knows won't leave a physical hangover. As for the mental one that will undoubtedly leave his Mind Palace in disarray again…</p><p>No. <em>Don't care</em>. He rips off the strings of the alarm bells in his head. He <em>wants</em>, and he <em>misses</em> things he doesn't know how to name, and when John's warmth envelops him as he wraps his arms around Sherlock, he realises how cold he's been all his life.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. In Which Sherlock Finds Himself In Limbo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When John he learns that his patient has removed their own stitches, he insists on giving Sherlock's wound a once-over. He does this at the Drever house by the kitchen table, squinting silently as though he's a jeweller attaching a most precious diamond. <em>Most likely the village surgeon wouldn't even do a house call for just stitches</em>, Sherlock reminds himself, because it's still so hard to believe John would want to spend time with him like this. That someone would want him close even after making love. Not that he would have described many of his prior sexual experiences with those words. Before, they'd seemed saccharine, unrealistic, the stuff of deluded literary minds. Now, the word 'sex' seems too clinical, too detached for what he's doing with John. <em>Making love… it's wishful thinking</em>, he tells himself, and coughs to regain his composure when he realises his cheeks have heated from John's proximity.</p><p>John finds one small bit of suture still imbedded in the skin and makes a smiling song and dance about removing it while chastising Sherlock for thinking he could manage such a complicated procedure without his doctor. John now smiles with all of his face instead of wearing those diminished, tight, forced expressions of before. He's open with all of his body, constantly hovering close by no matter what they do together. He only returns to his old, reserved self when there are others around. Angus he doesn't seem to mind; he relaxes, even, in the lighthouse-keeper's presence. Sherlock can understand why: the old man carries an air of having seen so much life that judgement has fallen by the wayside a long time ago. And perhaps the islanders aren't even half as disapproving as John thinks they are. <em>It is 2011, after all</em>. Still, Sherlock doesn't ask John for further rides to the village — he suspects John doesn't want the two of them to be seen too many times together. Sherlock wouldn't mind, but John is the one who has to live here, and Sherlock can sense the distance John draws between them, invisible barriers which rise up when they're in the presence of others. <em>Neighbour</em>, John describes him to others. Neighbour, not someone he spends nights with, not someone he kisses. Not someone who lies awake in the early hours of the day wondering how someone like John Watson could even exist.</p><p>Even though there are complications with John's reserved nature, things are still better than they were with Victor. John has a way of banishing that churning resentment, that fruitless frustration Sherlock has carried for Victor who cannot be yelled at or pushed away any longer. Not that Sherlock would have done such a thing. Had Victor crawled out of the grave and rang the doorbell, Sherlock would have welcomed him back — until he set foot on Westray and began to question a great many things.</p><p>Would John still welcome Mary back out of guilt and regret if she appeared at the doorstep? John had said that their marriage had been on the rocks for some time, but Sherlock has observed in his line of work that people stay together despite astoundingly numerous and significant reasons to separate. '<em>For the children</em>.' '<em>Because it's not what good Christians do.</em>' '<em>Who'd even have me if I dumped him?</em>' What sort of family life had John's daughter had — would she have sensed that her father's mind was often elsewhere, that he retreated into the bottle, and that her mother, betrayed and bloody-minded, could not always swallow her resentment? Sherlock cannot know what it had been like in the Watson household, but he knows what it's like to have parents whose relationship had deteriorated to the point of merely living in the same house and avoiding one another. <em>Does John think his relationship with Mary was worth more than it was because death gilds all memories and exonerates the one who passes away?</em></p><p>Or does it? Even in death, Victor has a wife. She is the one whose feelings got acknowledged, whose grief was allowed to be public.</p><p><em>Who was Mary, that you would have chosen to be unhappy with her?</em> Sherlock wonders that afternoon, watching the sunlight from the boathouse's only window give John's salt-and-pepper hair a yellow glint.</p><p>John is picking out nets from the collection hanging from nail hammered into the ceiling boards. They're old, weighted with rocks and with old bits of cork used for the floaters that make the nets stand up at the bottom. There are specific kinds of nets for sole and flounder, different ones for salmon and herring. The knowledge John has demonstrated regarding how to pick just the right fish to try for depending on the weather, and the spots where they all can be found is astounding. '<em>This isn't someone a person picks up in a book</em>', Sherlock had pointed out, and John had nodded before explaining that his father had taught him all this. Now that they're… whatever it is they are, John has been a bit more forthcoming about his life.</p><p>John's mother drank heavily, which was largely the reason John's father wanted her gone. Her drinking was exacerbated by being unable to tolerate life here on Westray with its cold, dark winters and the loneliness when her husband spent weeks away for work. For the islanders she was an outsider, and she made little effort to adjust, to blend in, to find her place in the community. Like so many women from the mainland who had married islander men, she turned to the bottle. They had divorced when John had been five, and he and his half-sister had gone to live in Winchester with their mother to be closer to her relatives. Not that it helped with the drinking, so Harriet, the sister, had taken over much of their mother’s role in terms of looking after John. Rose Watson had died of liver failure when John was twelve and Harriet — Harry for short — was twenty. She longed for a life of her own and had moved out of the house a year earlier. She told John that she'd spent enough time being a child who had to care for another child and bought two train tickets to Glasgow. After depositing John with their Dad, she moved to London. John speaks with her on the phone occasionally. Sherlock doesn't think it sounds like he misses her much. John is so… detached, so self-separated from other people that it's not surprising that his current relationship with his sister seems devoid of intense emotion. <em>Has John always been like this, or buried it all under the floorboards when he lost his family?</em></p><p>Sherlock has seen people react to the loss of a child. That deluge of emotion is profoundly unsettling, even to a bystander. Having never wanted children, he can't relate to it, and suspects that no one who hasn't experienced it first-hand can quite imagine what it's like. It's raw, violent, primal, unashamed of itself, free of the rules of social expectation. He has also observed how physical the experience is: the mind cannot contain all the pain, so it bleeds into the body. <em>Shaking. Cataplexy. Vasovagal syncope</em>. <em>Is it the same or easier, if it's an accident rather than the result of a crime? </em>Sherlock wonders. <em>Can it even be quantified?</em></p><p>John shares his story in small pieces, changing the subject when emotion threatens to break through. It's just under the top layer of his being, a riptide below a deceptively calm surface. Sherlock has tried to encourage him by sharing things from his own past, though he cannot know if his story is welcome or interesting. He offers little commentary to anything Sherlock says about his family, and Sherlock wonders why. Is family in all its forms too laden a topic? John seems to think that Sherlock's work is fascinating, even after Sherlock had corrected his assumption that he is an official MI6 operative. He responds favourable to stories of cases Sherlock has solved, so he uses any segue he can find to entertain John when the man gets broody. Listening to Sherlock's case stories, John says things like '<em>amazing</em>' and '<em>clever</em>' and '<em>brilliant</em>' — dispenses praise as though he has an unlimited supply of it. Perhaps he does. <em>'That's not what people usually say</em>', Sherlock has informed him. John had then asked what people do say to him. <em>'Piss off or, alternatively, attempt to punch my lights out,' Sherlock had responded</em>. John had chuckled, but it had died down quickly and he'd given Sherlock a strange look. It had resembled pity, but Sherlock had elected not to analyse it further.</p><p>"Could you grab a couple of those marker buoys?" John asks. "The small white styrofoam ones?"</p><p>Sherlock could do that, or he could continue watching John puttering about in the boathouse, tanned arms visible where he's pushed up his jumper sleeves. The flutter of arousal is no longer as unexpected as it had been in the first days of their acquaintance, and he no longer resists giving it free rein.</p><p>"The law says you should have proper buoys with flags and such, but nobody really cares about that. Who'd even enforce it out here?" John asks and starts collecting the rest of what they'll need for net-laying. Sherlock has promised to row while John handles the nets.</p><p>Sherlock's eye catches a collection of old lures designed to imitate various insects and small fishes. They're in a dusty, haphazard pile on top of an old, probably broken fridge in the corner. Many of them feature beautiful waterfowl feathers tied expertly with old, sturdy thread. He picks them up, one by one, carefully strokes the silky feather strips to remove dust.</p><p>It takes him a moment to register that John is now watching him, leaning against a wooden bench onto which an old outboard motor has been attached. He's put the nets down in a neat pile on the floor. When Sherlock's eyes settle on his form, he steps closer. "I asked if you could give me a hand, not just lazy about staring at my arse."</p><p>"I was admiring your fishing gear, not your backside, and there are a great many things I'd love to give you a hand with," Sherlock replies, allowing his baritone to slip into its lowest register. He closes the distance between them; rows and rows of greyed old nets are concealing them from the doorway, so there's no reason to hesitate. He leans forward, sliding a hand behind John's neck to pull him close, to claim his mouth and suck a bit of lip between the front teeth just enough to signal the sort of possessiveness he feels right now.</p><p>
  <em>I found him. Can I keep him?</em>
</p><p><br/>______________<br/><br/></p><p>Late that night, just when Sherlock expects the inevitable excuses and apologies which have preceded John's retreat back to his own house, John closes his eyes instead. He hasn't stayed the night at the Drever house yet, nor has Sherlock stayed at his; perhaps that's about to change.</p><p>They're both nude underneath an old duvet lined with the fresh linens Sherlock had purchased, with an old woollen blanket thrown on top to keep the draught at bay. The bedroom is nearly dark — they know each other's bodies well enough now not to need light for navigation. Only slivers of white, cold moonlight are breaking through the darkness. They're coming in through the sitting room window and casting a shadow of a chair on the old, striped rug in the middle of the room.</p><p>Sherlock pulls John closer with the arm he has draped around the man's waist from behind, buries his nose in John's neck hair. It's a very particular, heady scent which fills his awareness: the sea, a mixture of sweat and masculinity, but also something unnamed he might call the essence of John. The beard burns on Sherlock's lips and chin itch, but he doesn't want to extricate his hands. The other one is underneath John's neck and the pillow, starting to develop pins and needles. His cock has gone soft: it is spent and sensitive, still, from the hands, lips and tongue it has endured gladly tonight. The feeling of it resting against John's bare bottom is exquisite; all Sherlock would need to do to reawaken fully his still simmering arousal is to shift a bit, seek that friction that had culminated not an hour ago in an orgasm that had swept through his consciousness like a whiteout in a blizzard.</p><p>He can't <em>not</em> have this. <em>Cannot. Will not</em>. A question he is able to keep at bay during the daylight now comes back in the long quiet of the night: <em>how can I go back to London</em>? There's nothing for him here on Westray — no work, not the sort of overwhelming and intoxicating sensory stimulation that London can offer. His brother isn't here, either — <em>though good riddance, of course</em>. He doesn't have his clothes, his books, his phone or his laptop or any of the other things he's used to fill his living space and occupy his mind outside of work. His mind should be consequently imploding, caving in on itself like the collapsing dome of a violently erupting volcano — yet it isn't. He should not be feeling this strange calm that only John's presence can bring, should not be so attuned to these alien surroundings instead of being wholly preoccupied with the contents of his head.</p><p><em>Perhaps Mycroft will require more time to get things sorted</em>, he thinks with an urgent sort of hope he recognises as futile. His brother is exceptionally good at what he does — most likely it's a matter of days before he's summoned back to his life. Still, not even Mycroft Holmes is omnipotent. Perhaps Sherlock's recent pickle will never get sorted. He's surprised to discover that he could live with that, could imagine being a Westray refugee from the dangerous forces that have formed an alliance to take him down.</p><p>He'd get bored here. It would be unrealistic to think John's company could provide enough sustenance for his brain. Yet it has turned out to be such a potent attraction that it has made him rethink his attachment to London.</p><p><em>John knows that this has an expiration date. He hasn't asked me to stay</em>, Sherlock tells himself sternly, and knows that he cannot, for the sake of his pride alone, make such a suggestion. <em>John seems hell-bent on staying here, so that's that.</em>Sherlock had entered into this willingly despite John flaying himself bare that day at the broch about what he is and what he could or couldn't give. Sherlock had still taken that step, and now John is in his arms, starting to snore. Sherlock, who's just a visitor to his life. <em>John chose to do this because and not despite the fact that I couldn't stay, didn't he?</em></p><p>Or… could it be that they have both ignored their own principles by not resisting this inexplicable pull? It's not just of the physical kind, their companionship: Sherlock has never been able to tolerate people who just want his corporeal form, not his mind. He can tell the difference, even if he cannot boast very good skills in reading people otherwise.</p><p>Then again… why had he tolerated Victor for so long?</p><p>He hooks his leg around John's and presses against the man's sleeping form, seeking shelter from his thoughts.</p><p>
  <em>Where do we go from here?</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. In Which Goodbye Is A Word Never Spoken</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next evening, John entwines their fingers in the dark of Sherlock's bedroom, and scoots closer. "I'll stay the night if you let me."</p><p>He hadn't asked yesterday. He hadn't asked, so these words must mean something. Is it less serious, less of a conscious decision, if it's not spoken about?</p><p>"Because you think you should?" Sherlock asks, trying not to sound accusatory.</p><p>"No, because I want to be here with you more than I want to go out in that damned howling gale and freeze my bollocks off."</p><p>Sherlock can't see his face in the dark, but he can hear the grin in his tone. He should be relieved to hear John is making light of this, if only to spare them both from some overcomplicated emotionally laden conversation. Yet the joke also makes him infuriated, because he doesn't know what he wants — doesn't know what he's allowed to want. <em>Don't</em>, he wants to say. <em>Don't make me care. Don't let me convince myself this is about more than just…</em></p><p>Victor was an absence, a gaping hole punched into Sherlock’s existence even when the man was physically present. In contrast, John's affection has filled so many cold, empty spaces in Sherlock's Mind Palace. Even John's silence is a comfortable one that doesn't need to be stuffed full of irrelevant stories of work and office politics. John doesn't suck the air out of the room — instead, he opens the window and lets the East wind in, and instead of freezing Sherlock to the bone, it caresses his curls and warms his skin.</p><p>He's never been good at resisting his cravings, and the one he's developed for John is headier than any other. <em>I can't be a replacement for who wore that other ring</em>, he wants to protest. <em>I won't live a life where I'm just a dirty secret who has to slip away into the night if someone comes to your house.</em></p><p>With Victor, he was just a shadow. Could there ever be space in John's life here for Sherlock to be an entire person?</p><p>There are no answers in the dark of the room, not even in the circle of John's arms around him. He drifts off to sleep, occasionally stirring when John turns and shifts where he's wedged between Sherlock and the wall.</p><p><br/>
__________________</p><p> </p><p>What he had assumed was a branch banging on a window at three in the morning turns out to be Angus at the door, grinning like the madman he is.</p><p>"What do you want?" Sherlock demands brusquely.</p><p>He already knows. He knows, and he wants to slam the door shut, but the tide of the inevitable will seep in regardless and drown everything. He should have kept reminding himself it always would.</p><p>Angus chuckles, and a blast of his stale breath hits Sherlock square in the face.</p><p>"Geh reedy," Angus says matter-of-factly. "They be comen. Nuh Bee."</p><p>Sherlock breathes out, heart now pounding against his ribcage as though it were a prison cell door. <em>Get ready. They're coming. </em>That last one must be Noup Bay, which is where he was dropped off.</p><p>"When?" Sherlock demands.</p><p>"Assicks."</p><p>Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose before opening his eyes to slivers. "Ass–– <em>at six. </em>In the morning? In the evening?"</p><p>Angus shrugs and steps back from the door, muttering something. Maybe it's about the house; Sherlock doesn't care enough to decipher the words.</p><p>He's going home. He'll get his phone back. <em>Cases. My violin.</em></p><p>John is still asleep, and Sherlock wants to keep it that way. He needs to pack; not that there's much to put together. <em>Is there anything I'll need, save for the clothes I arrived in? </em></p><p>He hesitates as he's about to walk past the binoculars on the table. John had given them to him two days ago. John, who owns very little by choice. They'd been watching seals resting on some rocks only visible at low tide, and John had given him his father's binoculars for watching the local nature. Would John come to the Drever house in a day or two after his disappearance to collect them, or would he assume Sherlock would take them to London? When John had given them to him, had he been thinking of their impending separation?</p><p><em>Don't mistake sex for love</em>, Sherlock tries to tell himself. <em>It's an error easily made</em>. The two can manifest in similar acts, but only one will leave a bitter taste of regret in one's mouth. Only one will always lead to disappointment.</p><p>It's just that Sherlock has never known which, not until the mistake is already made. And whatever he's been doing with John has put him on the losing side of the equation, just like his affair with Victor.</p><p><br/>
__________________</p><p> </p><p>As the sun is rising, Sherlock is standing on shore at Noup Bay, coat collars up to protect him from the brisk wind. The bay is a beautiful, secluded spot with crystalline water, and Sherlock has waded there several times in his borrowed, old pair of wellingtons which seem to have moulded themselves to his feet in the past two weeks. He had watched water spiders, small fishes and <em>Dytiscidae</em> — beetles from a genus that gets their name for the Latin phrase 'able to dive'. They had reminded him of his childhood, digging around the ponds and hedges at their estate.</p><p><em>There could be many opportunities for experiments here in terms of human tissue deterioration in water</em>, he realises bitterly. Before, he’s only been able to do such experiments with samples from the Thames. There is a lot he could have done with his time here on Westray, expanded his knowledge base for the purposes of his work. Instead, he’s spent his time conducting an experiment of another kind.</p><p>He is resolute not to think about John Watson. Even more resolutely he is pushing away all thoughts of John's breath on his skin and the way he'd felt as though they'd been absorbing each other, shifting from two individuals to something shaped like an <em>us</em>. He needs to slip his real, normal persona back on instead of playacting someone who lives here. Instead of wellingtons, he’s wearing his leather oxfords again, and his feet are already cold and damp. The water has risen in expectation of a storm and drowned the tenacious grasses on which he’d stepped when he’d first arrived.</p><p>Out in the distance, on the relentlessly rolling grey waves, the outline of an RIB appears. He shifts his balance, a knot forming in his stomach.</p><p>Then, footsteps on the rocks make him pivot on his heel.</p><p>Angus.</p><p>"Yeer flittin'", the old man says, nodding and touching the edge of his moth-eaten flat tweed cap with his forefinger in a salute.</p><p>Sherlock knows enough Scottish English to recognise the second word — Angus is acknowledging his departure. "This is the worst safehouse in intelligence history," Sherlock tells him with a scoff. "If I told my brother the truth about how this place has gone to the dogs, you'd get sacked."</p><p>Angus bursts into croaky laughter, startling Sherlock. "Eh, Marcroff Holms, pfft," he says and spits over his shoulder. "Just er wee nyaff."</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes. It appears he has found the only other person not afraid of his big brother.</p><p>He can see now that there are four people in the RIB — how preposterous to send so many, assuming the danger is over. Mycroft would never assume he'd hesitate to return, so why send a whole platoon of operatives just to make sure he puts on his life vest?</p><p>It hits — the full-on realisation that this is it. John will wake up alone in the Drever house, scrape together a meagre breakfast from what’s left in the kitchen, then go to work at the clinic. He’ll continue his barebones existence. Maybe he’ll think about Sherlock when he puts on the album that they had danced to two nights ago.</p><p>
  <em>John does know how to lead.</em>
</p><p>"Whit's fur ye'll no go past ye," Angus says, puffing on an old ivory pipe he’s dug out from the nooks and crannies of his baggy, layered clothing. His expression has sobered up and somehow, as they study the sight of each other, Sherlock has the strangest feeling that Angus knows who he's thinking about. He has no idea what the man has just told him, but it must be about John.</p><p><em>But how could Angus know?</em> Sherlock wonders, then realises the lighthouse-keeper must've noticed his eyes keep slipping towards the road, had picked up on Sherlock’s restless vacillation.</p><p>Angus is, after all, the one who's seen him and John together. The man must be the closest approximation to a friend John has these days.</p><p>"Can you…" Sherlock swallows, "can you tell him something? For me?"</p><p>"Aye." Angus looks sombre, focused.</p><p>"Tell him… he deserves more. Whatever happened to him before… regardless of why he thinks he needs to punish himself, he deserves more."</p><p>
  <em>Even if it's not with me. Even if it was never in the cards for this to last. If John wants to be here, he should be, but not because he thinks this is his punishment.</em>
</p><p>The RIB is close, now — the ferry that will take him across this sea of Styx into the unknown.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>__________________<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
After the miserable, bouncy and wet ride to the mainland, they board a train at Wick bound for Inverness. Sherlock’s minders keep to themselves, directing him into a private compartment. There, he watches the streaks of rain weep down the window and imagines the goodbye he didn't have the courage to undertake.</p><p>He would have reached out a hand, tried to act courteous and distant. '<em>To the best of times, John</em>.'</p><p>'<em>Yeah</em>,' John would have said, shook his hand but not let go. '<em>Sherlock’</em>, he would have said, his voice tight but resolute, thick with emotion but contained, spine snapped straight like a soldier’s should be.</p><p>The warmth of John's hand would have finally receded, and Sherlock would have felt his heart retreat back deep into his chest. It would stay there, safe behind flesh and bone instead of being on his sleeve. Never on his sleeve like this again.</p><p>Maybe Sherlock would have even had the courage to say sorry. '<em>Apologies for messing about with your life</em>. <em>I never know what to do with my own, either</em>.' John would have nodded without a word, left him feeling like a Catholic walking out of a confession booth without exoneration.</p><p>After John had let go of his hand and retreated, Sherlock would have lingered on the front steps of the Drever house to watch him walk away. He would have watched John return to the cocoon of a life which Sherlock had assumed was a prison but may just be a safe haven. A sanctuary for John to escape from himself. To escape from such things as Sherlock.<br/>
He's not sorry about any of what had happened between them, not really. What he is, is envious because John gets to stay here, safe from his own thoughts presumably, while Sherlock goes back to London to face the emotional desert of his life. His is an existence punctuated not by the highs of happiness but by the lows of witnessing the terrible things in his work that people do to each other.</p><p>“To the best of times, John,” he whispers to the rain weeping down the window.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>Angus—English Dictionary:</b><br/>flitting = to move house<br/>"Whit's fur ye'll no go past ye." = "Whatever is meant to happen to you, will happen to you."</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. In Which Things Are Not The Way They Were Before</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>There is love in your body but you can't hold it in</em><br/>
<em>It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin</em><br/>
<em>Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks</em><br/>
<em>And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>There is love in your body but you can't get it out</em><br/>
<em>It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth</em><br/>
<em>Sticks to your tongue and shows on your face</em><br/>
<em>That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste</em>
  </p>
  <p>— Florence Welch<br/>
<br/>
</p>
</blockquote><p><br/>
It's strange how alone one can feel in the afternoon bustle of Marylebone. In fact, the more distant the desolate northern wilds of Scotland had grown on the train, the more solitary Sherlock had felt. He's always lived alone, but never felt such a loss of human companionship. Possibly because he’s never sampled much of it before.</p><p>After a cab ride home from King's Cross station, Sherlock drags himself up the stairs to his flat at 221b Baker Street. Only dust moves in its confines; Mrs Hudson, his landlady who lives downstairs, must be elsewhere, judging by the quiet.</p><p>Standing in the middle of the sitting room, Sherlock's shoulders hunch down. He drops onto the worn leather sofa and buries his face in his palms just as the racking sobs of loss, confusion, resolved stress and exhaustion emerge from where they had lain dormant. He weeps until his head is pounding and his eyelids prickle with salt that tastes so much blander than the flavour of Westray’s briny sea breeze on John's lips.</p><p>Hundreds and hundreds of kilometres away, in the throes of what now feels like just a burst daydream, Sherlock had felt seen. Now, in the safe haven of his own home, Sherlock feels invisible and unwelcome. '<em>Where have you been all this time, Sherlock Holmes</em>', John had asked him in bed while stroking his coarse-skinned knuckles so reverently down Sherlock's cheek. It was so different from Victor, whose pillow talk after sex mostly consisted of ordering Sherlock not to use up all the hot water after.</p><p>Sherlock laughs but it's a hollow, incredulous chuckle, sudden like a bird startled to flight. <em>I don't have to let go of Victor, because he was never even mine. </em><em>And John, John, John… what of John?</em> John belongs to himself and the ocean and his memories of something he won't even really discuss, save for fleeting mentions and half-truths. But… John had still broken the shield he’d constructed around that solitary existence to let Sherlock in, even if he knew things would come to an end. It has to mean something.</p><p><em>I belong to no one</em>, Sherlock reminds himself. <em>Caring is not an advantage.</em> <em>Alone protects me,</em> he tries, but even unspoken, those words are bitter on his tongue. Protects him from what?</p><p> </p><p>_____________</p><p><br/>
Lestrade rocks on his heels by the human remains they're standing over. "Oi, Sherlock? Never thought I'd have to prompt you like this, but penny for your thoughts?"</p><p>"Hm?" Sherlock hadn't registered the words, save for his name, which had roused him out of the cocoon of his brain. Before, he used to keep several channels open for new information, but these days, he shutters away so easily and completely. “It’s not a kidnapping, it’s a homicide,” he says bluntly.</p><p>A woman standing off to the side, clutching the arm of a man beside her, dissolves into sobs. They must have been introduced, and since Sherlock must have deleted their identities, they must be inconsequential.</p><p>“For the love of–––” Lestrade curses. “Could you escort Mr and Mrs Hall out?” he barks to one of the officers idling at the scene. “Why do you say that?” he demands from Sherlock.</p><p>Time to explain the obvious to lesser minds. It’s one of the worst parts of Sherlock’s job. “The table and chairs have been pushed back against the wall to make room for something, and the dust pattern dictates that there was a rug here.”</p><p>“Could you verify that?” Lestrade asks a crime scene tech, who nods and scuttles out.</p><p>Sherlock glares at the DI. “You know I’m right. Whoever did this used the rug to wrap the body and transport it out so it wouldn’t drip. Get me some luminol.”</p><p>“You don’t think they’ve sprayed it already?”</p><p>“They’ve sprayed it where there are signs of a struggle, and where valuables have disappeared. People don’t keep their valuables in the kitchen.” Sherlock swipes a finger along the lower part of a kitchen cabinet, and smells it. “See? No luminol.”</p><p>Two crime scene technicians are summoned to verify what Sherlock has just said. They find a spatter and pooling patterns on the floor and the surrounding cabinets.</p><p>“Too much blood for the victim to have survived,” Sherlock voices what he suspects they are all thinking.</p><p>“How sure are you?” one of the techs asks.</p><p>Sherlock awards the woman with his fifth glare of the day. He and Lestrade then retreat to the doorway to watch as the scene is documented. The bright flashes of the evidence cameras make them blink.</p><p>"Everything alright?" the DI asks when the forensic hubbub begins to die down.</p><p>“Yes," dismisses Sherlock with an absent-minded flick of his wrist.</p><p>“It’s just… this is a big step forward, but you don’t seem excited. In fact, you haven’t seemed excited about anything lately.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Sherlock enunciates slowly to drive the point home, then fishes out his phone from a jacket pocket to shut Lestrade out.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>_______________</p><p><br/>
"If you're fine, then what are you still doing here?"</p><p>Sherlock is startled to realise — after tearing himself out of his own head and glancing at the wall clock — that he's been sitting in the DI's office for an hour after the case originally wrapped up with a press conference. Gone is the crime scene, and hours have passed. A murderer-kidnapper has been caught, the remains of the victim located.</p><p>"That was some of your best work," Lestrade praises.</p><p>On a cerebral level Sherlock agrees, but the emotional engagement is missing — just as Lestrade had claimed. He should want to go home to celebrate. But with what? By sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea waiting for a takeaway delivery? By a bit of cocaine which, oddly enough, is not what he craves the most right now.<em> Violin until the small hours of the morning, then the inevitable post-case crash and a resulting twenty-hour nap? Then what?</em></p><p><em>'God, that case must've been so much fun,'</em> John's voice tells him in his head. It's not a memory but wishful thinking extrapolated from things John has said to him. Sherlock had regaled John with many stories of his work and each time, the man listened raptly, asking surprisingly intelligent and pertinent questions which made Sherlock see some of those cases and his own thought processes in a whole new light.</p><p><em>'Must be quite something, seeing you in action,' </em>John had said several times. If only. <em>'So brilliant. Clever. Amazing.'</em></p><p>What would it be like if John had been there with him this morning at the crime scene? What would it have felt like if John had said some of those things out loud? What would it be like to have a partner, a friend, a colleague there instead of just that impermeable wall of disapproval emanating from all Met staff except Lestrade?</p><p><em>Every so-called love story eventually ends in tragedy</em>, he tells himself. He's better off without. He'll go home, play the violin…</p><p>
  <em>And what will I do after that?</em>
</p><p>"I wonder what he's doing right now," Sherlock wonders, then realises to his horror after glancing at Lestrade's expression that he's said it out loud.</p><p>The DI gulps down something from a chipped mug, looking thoughtful. "He's probably getting frisked at the First Night Unit at Wormwood Scrubs. How so?"</p><p>Sherlock’s brain flails momentarily until he realises that Lestrade thinks he’s talking about the man they’ve arrested today. “I just… Couldn’t help wondering what it’s like to realise your life has been permanently changed, and not for the better.” <em>Is that what John really believes, that nothing in his life could ever be good again, and that’s why he has to confine himself to Westray?</em></p><p>"Not like you to have sympathy for the devil." Lestrade says with a snort.</p><p>The DI is right in that Sherlock has never wasted any on such wastes of space, breath and human potential as Colin Valentine Tipps, who the unimaginative press has dubbed "The Carpet Killer". It was a rug, not a carpet he'd wrapped his victims in. On second thought, Sherlock decides he isn't proud of the speed and precision of his own thought processes in this case, after all. It hadn't occurred to him until the third crime scene to look at the kitchens more carefully.<em> What the hell is wrong with me?</em></p><p>"We could have a look at one of our cold cases tomorrow; Molly says some toxicology stuff they had to send to Germany has finally come through."</p><p>"The Elephant &amp; Castle decapitation?" Such murders are rare, and Sherlock should be giddy from excitement that there could be progress. Instead, he's vacillating between wanting to go home and not wanting to go home. Perhaps that's why he'd inadvertently lingered here at the Met headquarters. Home means… alone.</p><p>"Uh huh," Lestrade replies proudly. His face falls when he finds no echo for his enthusiasm on Sherlock's features.</p><p>Sherlock rises to leave.</p><p>"Ever since you got back from… wherever that brother of yours dragged you off to––" Lestrade starts, kneading his neck muscles with his fingers awkwardly.</p><p>"Scotland." Lestrade had been led to believe Mycroft had brought Sherlock a private case.</p><p>"––Scotland, you've looked like someone pissed in your whisky. Did something happen out there?"</p><p><em>Yes and no</em>. <em>Before, I barely even grieved for the dead. Then, John taught me to mourn for someone who's still alive. Curious that it should hurt more.</em> <em>Dead is dead. Cannot be lost again. In contrast, alive but unwilling is…</em></p><p>"I met someone," he finds himself saying. "But it wasn't meant to be."</p><p>Does he believe that, or does a stubborn part of him still think he should have stayed and given it more of a try?</p><p>"Oh. Well, long-distance things are hard."</p><p>If long distance means how John had held him at bay while still inviting him to bed, the expression is poignant.<br/>
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</p><p>_______________</p><p> </p><p>"Get up," says his brother. "Get up, and start being functional again. I know you are perfectly capable."</p><p>Mycroft would make the worst therapist; his approach would likely just entail telling people to 'snap out of it'.</p><p>Sherlock cracks open one eye where he’s smeared on the sofa like margarine on stale bread. He's not depressed. He's simply been wondering what the point of everything is. He's been robbed of the false sense of purpose he used to find in solitude. <em>A monk who's lost their faith.</em></p><p>Something small and papery flutters onto his half-bare stomach. His dressing gown has slipped open because the sash is too loose. He picks up the offending item — a concert ticket. Berlioz' Grand Messe des Morts, opus five as performed by the visiting Vienna Philharmonic. "I don't like Berlioz."</p><p>"Nevertheless, this piece should satisfy your longing for grand drama. <em>'If I were threatened with the destruction of all my works but one, I should beg mercy for my requiem.'</em>"</p><p>Sherlock drags himself to a sitting position, knocking a pillow onto to the dusty oriental rug. "Only you would seek to <em>cheer me up</em> with a death mass."</p><p>"I recall you stating, more than once, that nothing delights you more than a juicy murder."</p><p>"If this were an opera, there might <em>be</em> a murder. The only purpose of a requiem is an exercise in morbid religious narcissism."</p><p>"What happened in Scotland?" Mycroft asks bluntly.</p><p>"Nothing." And that is the gist of the problem. He'd wasted his heart, let it burn to cinders and scatter to the winds, and has nothing to show for what he's gone through.</p><p>Mycroft glances at his Piaget. "You have an hour to dispel that body odour, to find a passable suit in your considerable collection, and to do something about that hair."</p><p>"Can't have me embarrassing you, now can we. Why'd you invite me to this? Did your escort cancel?"</p><p>Mycroft is frowning at the state of the kitchen. "Just get dressed."<br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hector Berlioz really did say that.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. In Which It's Hard To Let Go of The Past</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some background music might be in order for this chapter:<br/>1. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vk8AyJBoi4I">Dies Irae from the Berlioz mass</a><br/>2. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5lehbl7v4Q">Some mournful yet angry Vivaldi</a> and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCHREyE5GzQ">the Allegretto from Beethoven's 7th symphony</a> for general ambiance<br/>3. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_hmRC8H3tU">this might well be quite close to what Sherlock hears at Victoria station</a><br/>4. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sG52A719Dlw">some Händel for the final scene</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em><br/>
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin</em><br/>
<em>Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in</em><br/>
<em>Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove</em><br/>
<em>Dance me to the end of love</em><br/>
<br/>
— Leonard Cohen</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>The first section of the Berlioz mass is done, and ominous, low cello and double bass tones are opening the <em>Dies Irae</em>. By the time the soprano voices bring the theme into fuller bloom, Sherlock is feeling the beginnings of claustrophobia. The spellbinding acoustics and oppressive gothic architecture of the Union Chapel are elevating the overwhelmingly rich tone of the composition into a sensory tidal wave. Sherlock's scalp is crawling with static, his heart is clenching in his chest, and he realises this is precisely what his brother had intended — to use this devilishly beautiful sacral music to break through his defences, to shake him out of his paralysed reverie. To make him express what he's tried to suppress.</p><p>
  <em>But to what end?</em>
</p><p>How much does Mycroft even know? Are his spies truly everywhere, hiding in the church ruins overlooking the lowlands where John's house sits battered by the elements? Do they man even the Westray the post office; had they guided the vessel through the waves which had taken Sherlock back to the mainland? <em>How much does Mycroft know?</em> When big brother had asked about Scotland, Sherlock couldn't tell if it was truly to acquire data or to confirm established suspicions.</p><p>The male choir sections are belting out accusatory phrases, accompanied by angry, low strings and occasionally echoed by the sopranos. Sherlock juts his chin towards the ceiling in a last-ditch effort to keep the tears from wrenching out of his tear ducts. By the time the concert ends, and they shuffle out into the crisp evening air among the quiet crowd awestruck by the music, Sherlock's cheeks are pinch-red, his nose stuffy and his spirit drained. He feels as though he's a part of a funeral procession. Perhaps sensing his mood, Mycroft refrains from attempting conversation.</p><p>There is a dinner reservation at Claude Bosi — Mycroft must have cashed in a favour to get a table on a Saturday night. Sherlock hardly has an appetite, so he firmly nixes the tasting menus. Neither of them is an oyster fan, so the à la carte list is their best bet. Sherlock selects the Cornish crab and the Scottish langoustine from the starter list and declines the mains.</p><p>"<em>Two</em> seafood dishes?" Mycroft asks rhetorically, shaking his head. "If that's what you want, I won't stand in the way of your comfort eating."</p><p>The pudding list turns out to be a disappointment since the chocolate souffle is only available as a part of a chef's signature dishes menu. When the waiter appears and Sherlock prepares to just order a triple espresso, Mycroft takes charge and informs the waiter that if the souffle what his brother wants, then he'll pay the full menu price for just that dessert if the restaurant cannot be flexible enough to sell it separately. Sherlock, while picking at a hangnail, wonders if the tone Mycroft had used with the waiter is the same one with which he orders drone strikes.</p><p>Once they've dined, Sherlock can no longer hide behind the food from Mycroft's scrutiny. He keeps glancing at his phone, hoping for a text from Lestrade signalling the escape plan of a case. He needs to work. He needs time out of mind.</p><p>"For your sake, I hope it's not Grindr you're perusing on that thing," Mycroft comments dryly, nodding at his phone.</p><p>"I'm surprised you even know what that is. Have you expanded your tastes?" Sherlock asks with a razorblade glower.</p><p>Mycroft is tediously straight, possibly with some predilection for bondage as a recipient never acted upon. He has too much sense not to take the risk, considering his line of work. Sherlock shudders; Mycroft's sex life is not something he wants to dwell on. At least the man has never been anything but neutral concerning Sherlock's orientation. There are plenty of other traits of Sherlock's his brother has judged and attempted to correct.</p><p>It appears that sex is also on Mycroft's mind as he leans back against his chair, placing primly his linen napkin on the table. "I have always thought it rather curious, that habit of yours of casual encounters. Initially, I was surprised you were even capable of such business-like behaviour when it came to companionship. If anything, I would have expected you to long for courtship before…"</p><p>"––before sex," Sherlock concludes. He downs half of the glass of white wine Mycroft had ordered for him, the pompous overbearing arse that he is. The <em>melon de Bourgogne</em> is exquisite — it's just that everything tastes like ashes these days. "My bedroom business is my own. Why the hell are we discussing this?"</p><p>"It's not your capability for carnal pleasures I have doubted — it is your ability to walk away without regret or attachment afterwards. You were never careful with your heart. When you have given it to someone, you have done so without even realising you'd gifted it away."</p><p>"You don't know me." Sherlock is aware how weak the argument is. He feels a very acute and pressing need to escape and leave Mycroft to sort out the bill.</p><p>"Oh, but I do. And you make the mistake of assuming that those who you have loved also knew you in a way that would have allowed them to realise the depth of your fall."</p><p>"<em>Enough</em>. Go wax dramatic about your own love life, or lack thereof. Besides. I don't <em>do</em> Grindr."</p><p>"I suppose you've convinced yourself that eyes meeting across a crowded bar before a conference in a bathroom stall is more dignified, then? More <em>romantic</em>?"</p><p>"Nothing about sex is romantic."</p><p>"Depends on the kind of sex one is having," Mycroft says matter-of-factly, then sips his syrupy-looking dessert wine. "I assume you didn't choose those men because they were particularly pleasant towards you. Does that say more about them than it does about you?"</p><p><em>Trust the man to pick the cruelest dish on the menu. </em>Sherlock bares his teeth. "I loathe to repeat myself: none of your business."</p><p>He knows that some men he's been with have been his way of playing with fire, an attempt to prove to himself that he could enjoy a brief encounter and walk away without emotional attachment. Not with Victor, though, at least not after the very start of their acquaintance. Before Victor he'd been playing a game in which he almost gives himself what he wants, then denies it. He's never found any particular reason for why he'd deserve love, so why bother looking for it?</p><p>Victor hadn't been nice to him, so Victor had been allowed to stay. Like a wine stain not sunk fast enough into cold water, Sherlock had allowed him to linger for too long and leave a mark.</p><p>John has done the same to him, left an invisible scar, because he'd arrived at a time when Sherlock's defences were down. They were down because he had not been looking for anything. He hadn't been looking, but John had come into his life regardless, stumbled in without permission and dug a trench in his chest he keeps trying and failing to fill with other things.</p><p>_____________</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, he goes through his neglected email box and accepts a case in Gillingham. He takes it because he wants to see if leaving London might ease the weight off his shoulders. It turns out to be a simplistic affair solved in a matter of hours: a swindled family fortune involving a fake will. He should have known better; the unfamiliar Kent surroundings do nothing but worsen his sense of alienation from his own life. He's had a taste of a different existence, now — one in which there is real companionship, someone whose arrival he looks forward to every day.</p><p>His train back deposits him at Victoria Station. As he heads to the exit to Buckingham Palace Road, the sound of a bow on strings perks up his ears. A cellist is busking in a busy corridor, a worn hat on the floor containing many coins and even some notes. Londoners are discerning customers when it comes to busking since they are treated to many talented ones; judging by the loot, this one must have some talent. Sherlock slows his steps but does not stop until he recognises the melody. And that's when he feels as though someone has kicked him in the chest.</p><p>It's one of the Leonard Cohen songs he and John had danced to, a maudlin one that speaks of desire and burning violins.</p><p>He remembers all of it now, in bone-aching detail. Neither of them had been inebriated that night. John had put on the vinyl, sheepishly offered his hand. They were such a lopsided pair, uneven like a stroke victim's smile as John tried to lead and mostly just trampled the taller Sherlock's toes. Regardless of the missteps, the feel of John's hand on the small of his back, John's reddened cheeks from the exercise and the embarrassment of his skill level… Sherlock had not wanted to change anything about that dance, especially not the barely there kiss at the end, their lips gently meeting for a chaste union before John pulled back, took a deep breath and went for a more passionate one. Mycroft is wrong: it is not recalling the sex but the memories of all the small things that break him now. Lunch sandwiches on the pier, laughing together, waking up together. Being with John had not been the first time he'd adjusted his body to the entry of a hard cock, not the first time he'd taken himself in hand amidst thrusts to chase an orgasm so it might coincide with his partner's, not the first time he'd retreated into the loo to clean himself up afterwards to avoid leaking the results of John's climax onto the sheets. It was, however, the first time that someone had slipped in after him into the bathroom, wrapped warm arms around his torso and made him feel so bare — so apprehensive that anyone would want to share such a domestic, unromantic moment.</p><p><em>John</em>.</p><p>The garrotte around his chest doesn't let up until he's out of the station, tearing down the pavement, trying to leave the crowd before they start staring, before they see how the pricking in his eyes has manifested into tears.</p><p>He has left something of himself with John, and he's not certain he can get it back.</p><p> </p><p>_____________</p><p> </p><p>He gets chips on the way home from the food cart in the corner. Mostly, he does it to spite his brother and that fancy dinner served with a side of ugly truths. But he also does it for himself. Very few things except food give him any joy these days.</p><p>That night, he dreams of Victor Trevor. His mind travels down several paths, tries out several versions of how their first meeting could have gone, but still ends up with a replay of their real first meeting.</p><p>That day, he'd banged on Mycroft's door with furious gusto because <em>someone</em> had got him booted out of a case which had sensitive connections to the British ambassador to Pakistan and his lover, most likely a CIA plant. Lestrade had told him there was nothing anyone could do about the turn of events — the order had come from <em>high up</em> to retreat with their tail behind their legs.</p><p>"Three people have <em>died</em>!" had been Sherlock's opening gambit as he barged into the kitchen.</p><p>"I'm aware," had been Mycroft's parrying move. "That is, after all, what all people eventually <em>do</em>."</p><p>Sherlock glanced around the kitchen, surprised at the amount of people in his brother's house that day. As it turned out, the MI6 muscle was not there for Mycroft's sake but for the sake of an agent fresh out of Pakistan, brought in to the to deliver information pertaining to the diplomatic mess Sherlock had just been told his help was no good for.</p><p>"This is Victor Trevor," Mycroft said dryly, nodding towards a sandy-haired, tall man in jeans and a leather jacket perched at the edge of the kitchen table. Sherlock remembers wondering who the <em>hell </em>would be allowed to do such a thing — nobody <em>perches</em> in Mycroft's kitchen. Not if they want to live. A quick sweep up and down told Sherlock the obvious — that this was not a lover or a friend, just a work acquaintance for Mycroft. Had to be the field agent in question, judging by the demeanour and the haggardness brought on by a night flight in a non-commercial carrier. <em>Military plane</em>. Had this Victor Trevor been extricated from a mission gone bad, or was the information he carried simply so delicate and urgent that a place in such a transport had been secured?</p><p>"Tea?" Mycroft offered but made no move towards where the housekeeper had left a tray.</p><p>"Yes, please," Sherlock announced, challenging Mycroft with sustained eye contact and shoulders squared tight as he dropped into the chair opposite the tall, muscular blond.</p><p>"This is my brother," Mycroft said primly to Victor. "I'm afraid your intel may have cost him his current hobbyist detective case."</p><p>"Sorry," Victor chuckled. "The interest of the realm and all."</p><p>"Indeed," Mycroft said. "Do you still take sugar?"</p><p>"Yes," both Victor and Sherlock replied.</p><p>The Royal Doulton cups arranged onto a server hardly seemed like something the likes of Victor would choose for a quick cuppa. <em>Calloused hands</em>, Sherlock noticed. <em>Recent use of a firearm</em>. <em>Regular pushups</em>.</p><p>Victor had an inquisitive pair of green eyes, which told Sherlock that the man enjoyed what he was looking back at just as much as Sherlock liked what he was seeing.</p><p>Victor was just… Victor. A passing ship on a stormy sea, not the safe harbour Sherlock might have once mistaken him for. He had made that error because he had not known any better.</p><p> </p><p>__________</p><p> </p><p>In the early hours of the morning, drunk on appalling Irish blended whiskey Victor had left behind, Sherlock raises a glass to the empty air in the sitting room. He had been unable to sleep after jerking awake from some abstract nightmare.</p><p>"I wasn't in love with you," he tells no one in particular because the dead cannot hear the living. "I shouldn't have been. Who <em>could</em> be?" he inquires indignantly. "You were an <em>arsehole</em>," he tells Victor Trevor, and it's pathetic how talking to himself could feel this liberating. "Everyone I fucked, I was fucking you out of me."</p><p><em>Everyone except John</em>. John, who wouldn't look at him when they made love for the first time. John, who would retreat at any sign of messy, complicated emotion being added into the equation. John should have been the perfect antidote, the most sublime exorcism for the idiocy of Victor.</p><p>Instead, John was the black pit into which Sherlock now pours a third glass of whisky. Once it's scorching his stomach lining, he sends a text to his brother. He'll hate himself for it later because it means he owes Mycroft a favour yet again, but there's no one else with the same access to the truth. He could ask Lestrade since this is a police matter, but the DI could only provide notes from the early stages of the process, not intimate details of the outcome.</p><p><em>I need a favour,</em> Sherlock types into the text message. <em>I need documents pertaining to a car accident resulting in two deaths. London, three years ago. One of the witnesses is called John Watson. SH</em></p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. In Which Sherlock Decides To Listen to The Deep</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tw: Graphic details about a lethal traffic accident involving a small child.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>The only sadnesses that are dangerous and unhealthy are the ones that we carry around in public in order to drown them out with the noise; like diseases that are treated superficially and foolishly, they just withdraw and after a short interval break out again all the more terribly; and gather inside us and are life, are life that is unlived, rejected, lost, life that we can die of. If only it were possible for us to see farther than our knowledge reaches, and even a little beyond the outworks of our presentiment, perhaps we would bear our sadnesses with greater trust than we have in our joys.</p>
  <p>
    <em>— Rainer Maria Rilke: Letters to A Young Poet</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>It takes Sherlock three days after the delivery of a thick manila folder to open it and begin reading. It appears that his inebriated bravado has turned into caution. The warning that this might lead to nothing, that he might not see John ever again, is like a broken record in his head, but if there is one thing Sherlock has never been able to resist, it's knowledge.</p><p>Mycroft knows this about him. There had been a handwritten card in the folder, on top of the documents — written on heavy, expensive, beautiful white cardboard stock like the man always uses.</p><p><em>Indeed, if a little knowledge is dangerous, where is a man who has so much as to be out of danger?</em> it read.</p><p>Sherlock recognised the quote. It's by Thomas Huxley, a biologist whose own scientific career and work was side-lined by his fervour in advancing Darwin's theory of evolution. He was right in doing so, of course, but at great personal cost and neglect of himself. The message is loud and clear — Mycroft thinks this isn't Sherlock's fight, and that nothing good will come out of exhuming these skeletons.</p><p>Ironically, it might just have been his brother's overbearing attempt at warning him off that had helped Sherlock find the resolve to start reading.</p><p>He's not Darwin's groupie. He's a consulting detective.</p><p>Mycroft has been thorough; not that Sherlock wouldn't have expected any less. The man hasn't risen to the top of the intelligence ranks by being shoddy. There is a complete sampling of the investigative paperwork, forensic reports, court documents and some other bits and pieces, one of which catches Sherlock's attention. It's a notice letter of unpaid property taxes on a house in Teddington. It's an unsurprising location for a family home; it’s a safe area bordering the famous Bushy Park and across the river from Richmond Park, full of plenty of green, open spaces. <em>Then again, if greenery is what one is after, why choose London at all?</em> It must've been for work, he deduces, or perhaps proximity to family for childcare support. <em>If that's the case, then it must've been on her side. John doesn't have that sort of family</em>.</p><p>Looking at the dates, Sherlock makes the easy deduction that the payments on the property taxes stopped when Mary and the child had died. John must have just walked away, left everything behind. This conclusion is confirmed with a letter stating that John's position at Kingston Hospital's A&amp;E department was terminated when he never returned from compassionate leave.</p><p>There's John's criminal record, showing only a drunk and disorderly from his university days. No DUI charges or convictions.</p><p>Sherlock can't help but wonder about the order in which the documents are arranged. Is it random, or his brother's doing that the documents pertaining to the accident have come last?</p><p>He inhales deeply before skimming through the forensic autopsy records on Rosemary Watson, née Morstan and Rosemary Alice Watson. The infant's injuries are curious — much more severe than Sherlock would assume in a collision that left John, presumably in the front seat, alive. Mary Watson expired from a thoracic injury, her aortic arc torn by a splintered rib. Very few bones in her thoracic area had remained unbroken in the collision, and there were severe fractures in her lower limbs, too.</p><p>At least some of the narrative loose ends are tied together by the report from the officers on the scene, and an excerpt from John's medical records. Though Sherlock hadn't specified, Mycroft must've realised Sherlock's interest culminated in John's role.</p><p>John had been found wandering close to the wreckage, in a state of shock and inebriation. It was obvious he wasn't the driver since Mary Watson had to be cut out of the driver’s side of the vehicle by the fire department.</p><p>Sherlock draws a deep breath. <em>John wasn't the driver. Why does he think he caused this, then? </em></p><p>John had told the officers that they'd been fighting, that it was his fault. He had a bleeding head wound and was demonstrating symptoms of a possible concussion, if not more, so the interview was left brief on site. John was taken to hospital and kept under observation for seventeen hours before signing himself out against recommendations. When he'd been transported from the scene, his daughter had been barely alive, still. She'd died four hours later in the hospital. Sherlock wonders if John had seen her there before she succumbed to her injuries. The investigating officer had gone to see him at home the next day, brought him in for an interview. John had stated that they'd been arguing in the car, and that must've distracted her. He says he dimly recalls her telling him to fasten the child's car seat into the back of her car — it had been in his since he'd been on holiday, looking after her during the days while she worked instead of taking her to daycare that week. He was reticent to discuss what they'd fought about that night. The officers conducting the interview had informed John that the child's seat had been thrown towards the driver's seat which was simultaneously being crushed in by the collision. The interview had to be terminated at that point because John had been too distressed to continue.</p><p>Mary Watson hadn't been drunk. It was just an accident. The Coroner's Inquest and the police investigation revealed that the true culprit was the driver of the truck that had rammed into the driver's seat side of the Watsons' car. He'd ran a red light. <em>It wasn't her fault, even if they had been fighting and she'd been distracted.</em> <em>But does John know that? If he is aware of this, then why doesn't it seem to matter to him?</em></p><p>There was no trial because the truck driver had also expired. The Coroner's Inquest was the only legal proceeding following the collision that had claimed three lives. <em>Four, if one counts John's self-imposed exile</em>.</p><p>Had John even attended the Coroner's Inquest? Or had he left town once the police interviews were done? Sherlock continues reading the Inquest papers and notices that a witness had been unavailable. The paperwork states that steps to enforce compliance had been refrained from because the facts of the case could be established without, and out of compassion for the surviving victim who was the witness in question. <em>John</em>.</p><p>It appears that John had acted as his own prosecutor, judge, and jury. Sherlock finds he still has questions which these impersonal words on paper cannot answer.</p><p> </p><p>___________</p><p> </p><p>It takes him two more days to pluck up the courage to call John. Forty-eight hours of smoking, pacing and spraining his brain trying to come up with the right words to explain himself have resulted in nothing but frustration and finally, he realises he'll just have to improvise. It's a landline number so Sherlock has the benefit of surprise on his side. John won't know who's calling, increasing the odds that he’ll answer.</p><p>He doesn't. Every signal tone, every passing second twists Sherlock's stomach into a tighter knot. He lingers on the line, listening to the ear-grating long beeps until minutes have passed and he can't take it any longer.</p><p>Lestrade rescues him with a case twenty minutes later. Rescues him from his own thoughts and the overwhelming craving for an opioid that is making him want to claw off his skin.</p><p>Before tearing out of the house, he calls the surgery on the Westray pier. Emma tells him Doctor Watson is unavailable even though it's office hours. She offers him an appointment with his locum. <em>Curious</em>. <em>If John is not at work and won't answer his phone, where is he? On a long enough binge that they've hired a substitute?</em></p><p>Sherlock knows that it just might be wishful thinking that John would be so affected by his departure that he'd be unable and unwilling to go to work. Mycroft would call him egotistical.</p><p><br/>
___________</p><p> </p><p>The case is distractingly promising. In fact, it's <em>glorious</em>, save for the fact that the modus operandi includes something as unsavoury as sexually motivated homicide. Someone is picking up men from bars, going home with them and, in the process of a tryst, killing them. London has seen murders with certain similarities before, the most notable example of internalised homophobia channelled into serial homicide by Colin Ireland, dubbed "<em>The Gay Slayer</em>" by the press. It's a shame Sherlock hadn't been consulting for the Met yet; he would have loved to put that waste of space behind bars. Perhaps this new culprit has studied Colin’s cases and learned something from Ireland's errors; Sherlock is well aware of how serial killers idolise and study their colleagues and sometimes even seek to correspond with them in prison.</p><p>Sherlock has been following this case in the press and pestering Lestrade about the potential linkage; it seems that finally, the DI's superiors are ready to accept, begrudgingly, that they just might have another serial offender and copycat on their hands. Sherlock <em>loves</em> serial killers — they're so desperate to be noticed and elevated into notoriety that they always end up making mistakes. There's also the element of the time pressure, the intense chase when they know the person is guaranteed to strike again… <em>oh, the game is on!</em></p><p>There are two locations from where the four victims — so far — have been picked up. After surveying the fourth crime scene and having to listen to Anderson's unpolished humour and imbecilic insults, Sherlock, Lestrade, and two of his officers split up to canvas the locales. Sherlock picks the one he knows well already.</p><p><br/>
____________</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock has never had any interest in going to the better-known gay clubs in London. In his opinion they are vapid, tourist guide -approved cliches inundated with nineties queer culture nostalgia and plenty of bare skin in only-barely-designer brands. No, he knows London and knows where the men who know what they want and seek it with discretion. These places are the true floating world, the haven of those still married and in the closet, or who never shoved themselves into such places in the first place. This one is all dark wood and meticulously positioned shadows, the aesthetic carrying hints of an opium salon. Here, Sherlock has never failed to attract exactly what he wants. Instead of a suit, he has occasionally donned black jeans and a white shirt with several buttons left open, perhaps even added a bit of eyeliner. It’s not quite a goth pastiche but enough to fit in, to signal that he wants to be lavished with attention but is no virginal creature. To fit in better, he'd ditched his suit jacket and untucked his shirt, rolling up the sleeves and unbuttoning as many buttons as he’d dared. Lestrade is on the other side of the club, looking awkward and out of place. Sherlock is certain this is more due to being in a club than being in an upmarket gay club per se. Pubs are more the DI's scene.</p><p>Sherlock strides to the bar and orders a drink for verisimilitude, catching the attention of a tattooed hunk nearby who raises their glass to him with an inquisitive smile. <em>This could be a chance to survey the back of the club and the gents without arousing suspicion. </em>All Sherlock needs to do is arouse something else. With a quick glance in Lestrade's general direction, he rises from his seat, shifts closer to the man and leads him into the gents with practiced moves. What happens there is not the main act but merely some spirited kissing with a sampling of the offerings surveyed through clothes. As is customary, they don't bother exchanging names. Having probably sensed Sherlock's disinterest, the man doesn't push for more or suggest a relocation. There's an awkward, expectant moment when Sherlock takes a step back, taking a deep breath. "Not tonight," he says.</p><p>"Your loss," his temporary companion says.</p><p>Sherlock can almost convince himself that he's still focussed on the case as the man disappears back into the dark. The proximity of his suitor has woken a longing he's tried to push away, to convince himself the price for it is too high to pay. <em>He wasn't even my type</em>.</p><p>The gents is now empty, save for Sherlock. He closes his eyes, leans his back against the wall beside the row of sinks.</p><p>These men belong in a room of his mind he can close and lose the key; it wouldn’t do to taint the mental construction of the safe haven that is home with the jetsam and flotsam of fleeting pleasure. Until Victor had entered his life, he'd never taken any of his conquests home.</p><p>Not even an hour has passed before he gains another admirer. This one says he’s called Christian. It doesn’t matter if it’s even true. Sherlock indulges his attention — it's a good disguise for watching the other patrons. Eventually, though, Christian's perseverance and good looks begin to compete with the case for Sherlock's interest. The buzz of alcohol in his veins is making his limbs and tongue loose, the pull for something more nearly impossible to ignore.</p><p>They could be anyone they want tonight. William, a hedge fund manager and Christian, profession already deleted if he'd even told it to Sherlock. They're ships passing in this foggy London night, their true intentions safely concealed behind walls built with regret and the need for self-preservation. This could be exactly what Sherlock needs.</p><p>Lestrade has left the premises, informing Sherlock with a text that he's needed at the HQ. Sherlock doesn't want to signal to Christian that he's bored or disinterested by digging his phone out apart from a quick glance to read the DI's message, so he responds blindly to Lestrade from inside his pocket that he'd continue surveillance to get a feel of their unsub’s hunting ground.</p><p>Christian has dropped from his barstool and shifted closer. Now, he steps into the vee between Sherlock's legs, slides his arms around his waist. "Want a line?" he whispers into Sherlock's ear, palms sliding downwards so that he can hook his thumbs into the belt loops of Sherlock's trousers.</p><p>Sherlock hesitates; he tries to convince himself briefly that it’s because he’s working, but his persuasion is weak.</p><p>He cannot tell in the cold, blue anti-injection light of the larger gents downstairs whether Christian’s eyes are kind, whether they’d reflect sunlight off the sea surface. Whether they’d laugh and smile with his mouth or hide a sadness like a veil.</p><p>Whether they’d be like John’s.</p><p>
  <em>Why am I hesitating? I haven't made any promises to anyone. I don't have anyone.</em>
</p><p>”Let’s go back to mine,” Christian says, voice husky with desire. It appears that Sherlock’s French kissing skills are acceptable.</p><p>Industrial metal pounds like a heartbeat in the narrow corridor as they make their way back to the main floor. Sherlock straightens his form and sniffs as he follows Christian to the cloak room, the cocaine already taking effect and accelerating his decision-making.</p><p>He needs new hands on his skin to erase the invisible prints left there by John Watson, whose mysteries just might remain forever unsolved.</p><p><br/>
____________</p><p> </p><p>There's panted breath in his ear, the weight of Christian on his back.</p><p>
  <em>Alone protects me. Anonymity protects me.</em>
</p><p>But from what? What is the secret purpose, the fragile identity he has been protecting? No one would put his face on the cover of a tabloid for this, no one would tweet rumours about his exploits online. He <em>is</em> no one, except to his clients. Right now, he is neither Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective nor William what-the-fuck-ever, hedge fund manager and taxidermist or whatever nonsense he had spouted at the club.</p><p>How could he be himself if he hasn't <em>felt</em> like himself since Westray?</p><p>Suddenly, he can't bear not to be known. He had befriended John under false pretences, pretended to be someone else, but in not knowing him, John had <em>seen</em> him. John had called his name; he hadn't been aware who, exactly, that name had belonged to, but he'd spoken with such reverence all the same. Spoken as if Sherlock was what he wanted, not a stand-in with a beating heart for a masturbation session.</p><p>In being no one on Westray Island, he'd become someone he loathed less than he does right now.</p><p>"Sherlock," he says. It's a word clenched through teeth — an insistent command, not an apologetic excuse.</p><p>"What?" comes a grunt from behind, and Christian stills, the next relentless thrust aborted.</p><p>"Sherlock," he says, and his voice is clearer, now, loud enough to be heard even through the haze of hormones and the veil of drugs. "That’s my real name."</p><p>"So what?" Christian grunts, pulling out but letting his cock press firmly against Sherlock's bottom. "You okay? Can I––"</p><p>"No," Sherlock says, and it's not just for the offer of continuing what they were doing that is still being pressed against his arse cheeks.</p><p>The <em>no</em> is for all the things which have brought him to this place. It's a defiant battle cry against the universe that thinks this is the best it could do for Sherlock.</p><p>Christian drops to his side on the bed. Sherlock mutters a fumbling apology he doesn't mean and climbs off the bed.</p><p>He is a crime scene, a grave desecrated, and his spirit is too restless to go on as he used to — fumbling for a bit of warmth in the dark recesses of London.</p><p>"Have a nice bloody night, then," his rejected companion says when Sherlock begins hastily putting his clothes back on.</p><p>Sherlock slams the door behind him and walks into the icy fog that has swallowed London while he'd taken this vile but educational detour. Tyburnia's Radnor Mews where Christian calls home is within a short walking distance from home, and he needs to clear his head, anyway.</p><p>The evening is still young by London standards, so he texts Lestrade to ask if there are any new developments. Having forgot he'd turned it on silent as they were headed to Christian's place, he digs out his phone ten minutes later to check if there's a reply. When he looks up from his phone, the front door to 221B Baker Street is less than forty paces away.</p><p>And someone is sitting on the steps.</p><p>At first, Sherlock thinks it's the cocaine. Or perhaps Christian had slipped something into the requested glass of water he'd given Sherlock.</p><p>Then he wonders if it's just a trick of the light in the thick fog, this human form alien and painfully familiar at the same time.</p><p><em>John</em>.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Colin Ireland was real, and so was his tabloid nickname.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. In Which Sometimes People Get What They Need</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), it's always ourselves we find in the sea.</strong>
    <br/>
    <em> <strong>— E. E. Cummings</strong> </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <strong>It's been so long between the words we spoke</strong>
    <br/>
    <strong>Will you be there up on the shore, I hope</strong>
    <br/>
    <strong>You wonder why it is that I came home</strong>
    <br/>
    <strong>I figured out where I belong</strong>
    <br/>
    <em> <strong>— Florence Welch</strong> </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p><em>He looks so different,</em> Sherlock thinks. <em>He's clean-shaven, for starters.</em></p><p>He's standing on the pavement, watching John sitting on the front steps. There is no light in Mrs Hudson's windows, explaining why he isn't waiting for Sherlock inside the door. <em>Mrs Hudson would have let him in, assumed he's a client for a minute or two, and then realised he isn't. She's like that.</em></p><p>Odd, how this is an outcome Sherlock had never anticipated. He'd assumed that, to talk to John, he'd have to go back to Scotland. John doesn't look like an outsider here — he looks like any Londoner waiting for his… what?</p><p>Sherlock can barely breathe as he relishes every second of observing John without being noticed, his mind racing in tandem with his heart. He has precious little time to decide what to say, how to react, and he also knows he might not be able to predict what he'll say or do when John's eyes set on his again. With John, even his best laid plans seem to be washed out with the tide.</p><p>Even just the sight of John, and London's grey colours grow brighter. It's as if someone has painted a streak of Westray blue on the sky, igniting more stars than should be possible under so much light pollution.</p><p>John glances at a watch Sherlock has never seen him wear. He has on clean jeans, a plaid shirt. Not even his coat is familiar; perhaps he has retrieved items of his old wardrobe from his house. Maybe he has thought long and hard what to wear today.</p><p>The thought fills Sherlock with dread. Will John notice his rumpled clothes, his still dishevelled hair — all the obvious forensic evidence that he's been with someone tonight? Will John deduce that tonight, he'd tried to be as reckless, as uncaring as before, but had to admit he's never been good at separating himself from his feelings. If he'd only had time to shower, to make himself presentable… now, he feels as though there's a scarlet letter branded on his chest even though he's never accepted such premises as shame or sin when it comes to sex.</p><p>He's not ashamed of what he's done. He's ashamed of why he'd thought he could do such a thing after being with John. Ashamed of thinking that it wouldn't just drive home like a stake to the heart how different it was to feel wanted instead of just <em>wanting</em>. He swallows, battling the desire to round the building, run up the fire escape, do something about his clothes, his hair, his… everything. Erase the scent of someone who's not John that his imagination, running wild, is convinced clings to him like this peasoup fog.</p><p>Suddenly, time has run out. John looks in the opposite direction, down the street, then his gaze scans around. He sees. <em>Sees</em>, and recognises, and scrambles to his feet.</p><p>Sherlock's heart flutters against his ribcage, soars like the terns sweeping off the cliffs next to the lighthouse. He is light as a feather, but freefalling at the same time.</p><p>Neither says a word until they are standing nary a metre apart. Sherlock can’t even be sure he’s breathing.</p><p>"Have you… waited long?" Sherlock asks.</p><p>John clears his throat, reflexively clasps his left wrist with his right behind his back — Sherlock can tell from the shifts of his shoulders. <em>Always the soldier.</em></p><p>"Yeah… no. Fuck," John says, licks his lips nervously. "I didn't know if you'd want to… since you left, since you left just like <em>that</em>, I didn't know if this would be alright." He gnaws his lip briefly, then lets out a careful little chuckle. "Couldn't know when you'd come home. Just thought I'd… wait until I got too cold, I guess." He shrugs.</p><p>Sherlock realises he must be smiling like an idiot. John's lip twitches upwards when their eyes meet shyly.</p><p>"Come in. Please." Sherlock shoves the key into the lock, proud of himself for hitting his target on the first try even though his hands are shaking. "There must've been a lot of mail," he blurts out next, mind whirling.</p><p>"Hm?" John asks, following him up the stairs.</p><p>"At your house."</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>"I know you haven't been there in a long time. That you left suddenly," Sherlock blathers and wants to kick himself. Possibly in the groin. <em>Idiot</em>. He sniffs; the cold air and the cocaine have made his nose runny.</p><p>"Er… yeah. Had to wade through a mountain of it. Nearly couldn't push the door open."</p><p>Sherlock shows him in, directs him to hang his coat on the rack. John watches him do the same, observes how Sherlock doesn't remove his shoes. He does when he's home alone, but right now it feels important to look… civil. Which is utterly ridiculous, because John has seen him naked. Has touched him where few have touched Sherlock. Where <em>no one</em> has touched him in that reverent way John had — as if Sherlock’s pleasure and safety was more important than his own.</p><p><em>He's here</em>, Sherlock tells himself incredulously and only barely stifles the impulse to channel his intense excitement into something embarrassing and physical. "Tea?" he asks with a grin he forms too suddenly for it to look natural. He grabs a piece from the kitchen roll and blows his nose, drops the crumpled-up tissue into the bin and washes his hands.</p><p>"I hate goodbyes," John says while watching Sherlock try to locate the sugar next. "I didn't say anything to anyone when I left. I didn't want to listen to their condolences."</p><p>"I've no time for the sorts of trite platitudes people cultivate at times of distress," Sherlock confirms. He finds a container he's nearly certain contains sugar and pushes it back into the cupboard.</p><p>"Can you… I don't really care about the tea," John says apologetically. "Can we just talk?"</p><p>"Yes," Sherlock breathes but it's a horrible thought, having to just sit down and listen and talk without jittering out of his own skin because this is too much, everything he's wanted but so terribly awkward, and he doesn't know what to… how to…</p><p>
  <em>I should have known I couldn't exorcise you like that.</em>
</p><p>John goes to the old armchair by the fireplace. Can he tell the one opposite is where Sherlock always sits, and the old, fabric-covered one is always empty? <em>Has been</em> empty, until now.</p><p>"Angus told me what you said. You left, and I thought that was that, but then he came by and told me. Sherlock… you can't decide for me. Not like that."</p><p>"You came all the way to London to tell me I'm wrong?"</p><p>"You don't have all the facts. You don't know how––"</p><p>"How the accident was not caused by you or Mary. How you didn't even stick around for the Coroner's Inquest to hear what happened, even though you must've understood, as a doctor above all, that the shock and the concussion must have distorted your memories."</p><p>"I see you conveniently omitted the fact that I was hammered." John's jaw juts out in anger and his sniffs. He shakes his head. "You only know what’s in the reports."</p><p>"You don't even seem surprised that I looked into it."</p><p>John raises his eyebrows. "I read your blog. <em>Consulting detective</em>. That's how I found your address. You're not the sort to let things go, are you?"</p><p><em>You don't know me</em>, Sherlock wants to argue, but then decides against it. Out of all the people he's known who are not his relatives, it's odd how John just might know him best. Even though he'd practically been undercover on Westray, he might just have accidentally played the role of his true self when with John.</p><p>"Then enlighten me."</p><p>"I don't talk about it," John says, "haven't talked about it, I mean, because there's nothing to talk about. Talking won’t change anything, can’t change what happened."</p><p>"Anyone calling themselves a therapist would beg to differ," Sherlock points out. "Most of them are overpriced charlatans, but still."</p><p>"We had a marriage counsellor. She was shite," John says, and chuckles a bit. "Took Mary’s side all the time. Which was fair, I guess, since she wasn't the one who cheated. But that doesn't mean it wasn't a two-way thing, the way things went wrong. I'm not <em>gay</em>,” John specifies, “But I'm not good at commitment. I love women, but with men… it's different."</p><p>Only a brief thought of Victor floats by. Sherlock is certain, now, that Victor spared no love for men, just lust. Lord only knows how he felt about women.</p><p>"I <em>am</em> gay, and I can tell you that being diminished into a married man's sexual identity crisis chew toy gets <em>very</em> old <em>very</em>fast." Sherlock pins John with his gaze, but gets lost in John's kind, blue irises as though he's stepped into the eye of a marsh and sunk from view. He cannot be angry at this man, cannot push him away when he's right there, alive and beautiful and brittle like early December ice.</p><p>"I wondered if you left because you thought I was using you. I promise you, Sherlock, I absolutely promise it wasn't like that. I tried to leave all of it behind, tell myself that part of my life was over, but it followed me all the way there. I thought I had it all worked out, how to just exist. But you were suddenly there, and you didn't just exist, you were… <em>alive</em>. And I couldn't say no. I couldn't even try."</p><p>"You did try. There are several empty whisky bottles' worth of evidence of that."</p><p>"I haven't had a drop since you left."</p><p>Sherlock stares. It's not a pleasant thought, even if John had meant it as a compliment, that someone's sobriety might land on his shoulders.</p><p>John's brows hitch up. "Don't look so horrified! I hadn't actually had a drop in thirteen months before you showed up. There were some… wobblies after I first moved in on the island, a few times I couldn't go to work, but…"</p><p>"First, I'm the cause of your sobriety and now you're telling me you relapsed because of me?" Sherlock is less insulted than he should be. John is <em>here</em>, in his living room, and he will gladly be the recipient of even more insults if that means the man will continue to exist in the same space.</p><p>John mutters a curse under his breath. "Look, I'll… of course it's not on you. And we got derailed a bit there. I was going to tell you what happened?"</p><p>Sherlock indicates with a flick of his wrist that John should continue.</p><p>"I told you I had a thing with my commanding officer. He got me transferred. That was the end of us. Mary found out from some emails she saw. That's when we went to counselling. I knew then that it would be hard, maybe impossible, to think that I'd have to go the rest of my life without ever being with a man again, but what could I do but promise her? We were <em>married</em>, we had Rosie." He makes an odd sound — half a sardonic laugh, half a grunt. "It was over between us. We stuck together, but only on paper. I drank, yeah, but it didn't really affect my job, save for a few… errors. Nothing that would be on my record. I was just tired, pissed off, and distracted. Then came a week when I had some annual leave scheduled, and things… got out of hand. I was supposed to watch Rosie, Mary was headed to see her sister who'd had a stroke because of pre-eclampsia. Mary came home from work, she had a train ticket for late that evening, but I was… she saw the state I was in and told me that we needed to take Rosie to her parents because I wasn't in a fit state to look after her. I gave her hell for it, probably, since I can't remember much. Can't remember much of that Spring, actually. I remember she told me to fix the car seat––" John's voice breaks a bit.</p><p>"You needed to take Rosie to her grandparents because you were drunk?" Sherlock asks quietly. Somehow, he senses John needs to say it out loud.</p><p>John nods and swallows. "Next thing I remember is standing next to the car, yelling at someone who was cutting her seatbelt. I didn't even understand I needed to be worried about Rosie." John rubs his face with his trembling hands. "It's on me," he says, voice wavering high-pitched. It sounds as though he's losing the struggle against tears. "It's on me, because if I hadn't been such a fuck-up, we wouldn't have been in that car."</p><p>"There are twenty-five thousand collisions involving a vehicle in London every year. There's no supernatural pretermination who gets into the worst accidents. It didn't happen because the universe needed to punish you." God, Sherlock hates this sort of magical thinking. It's fruitless and egotistical and leads to people wasting their lives because of guilt.</p><p>"We wouldn't have been <em>in that car</em>," John forces out from behind clenched teeth, fingers curling into a fist. "Don't you <em>dare</em>. Don't you dare say there was no explanation or logic or reason––"</p><p>Sherlock rises from his seat to go pick up the folder from the side table. He finds the coroner's report and drops it into John's lap.</p><p>"The truck driver was guilty of reckless driving, of endangering the lives of anyone in his path when he ran that red light. He was found to have forged his drive log; he was working way beyond the legal hour limits. He was tired, in a hurry, and he took a deliberate risk that killed three people. Yes, you, Mary and your daughter were there because you were drunk, but that created only the circumstances, not the accident itself."</p><p>"No," John chokes, groaning as he wipes snotty tears on his sleeve. "Don't say that."</p><p>"You can be sorry for the rest of your life. You can regret all of it for the rest of your life. But don't absolve this bastard who really did kill them by thinking it was all your fault. Don't do it, John."</p><p>"He paid with his life," John points out. He's managed to compose himself a little. "Nobody could ask for more."</p><p>"No one would begrudge you for thinking that capital punishment is fit for his crime. But surely, yours doesn't quite deserve a whole-life order."</p><p>"Doesn't anyone who aids and abets a murdered get the same tariff?" John asks, sounding deflated.</p><p>"That's for the courts to decide, not John Watson. And the judicial system decided that you'd suffered enough that they didn't even force you to attend your summons to the Coroner's Inquest."</p><p>John doesn't reply, just wrings his hands.</p><p>"You're right," Sherlock says and sits down in his chair again, "I can't decide for you what you want or deserve. But you're here. So maybe you made some kind of a decision already."</p><p>"I needed to sort out our house, move my things… out. It's too big for just me."</p><p>Sherlock realises, to his astonishment, that John hadn't said that he'd move his things to Westray. <em>He's changed back into the clothes he must've worn as a London family man. As a London doctor. </em>Is John staying here?</p><p>It appears so. "I hate that fucking job at the surgery," John continues. "I used to do proper ortho surgery, not remove fishing hooks and prescribe antibiotics for bronchitis. I mean, all hail those who love GP, it's a great specialty if you like that sort of thing."</p><p>"But you don't. From army surgeon to family physician on a remote island. Quite a transition," Sherlock confirms and grips the hand supports of his chair. "Then again, after Afghanistan, why wouldn't you want a bit of peace and quiet? Must've seen enough pain and suffering and gruesome injuries and violent deaths for a lifetime."</p><p>"Says the man who says he loves a juicy murder more than anything." John flashes a small smile.</p><p>Is Sherlock imagining things, or is that smile somehow lighter than before? Less tight, less reserved, less wary of what some invisible force watching his every move might think if he enjoys himself even for a moment.</p><p>"I didn't leave because I wanted to leave. I didn't leave because I didn't care. I just assumed our… thing always had an expiration date."</p><p>"I knew it had one, and that's why I tried to say no, but I couldn't quite get the words out."</p><p>"I should have said no," Sherlock replies. "I looked at you and saw a mess the likes of which I didn't want to get entangled in for the second time. But God help me, I did anyway."</p><p>"Maybe there's choices we make and choices we're led to make." John rises to feet which he seems unsure will carry him at first. "I better go. I just wanted to see you, felt that maybe I owed you an explanation."</p><p>"An explanation of why it didn't work… or why it might?" Sherlock asks, a fear that he's said the wrong thing gripping his windpipe like a vice. He has nothing to lose, and <em>everything</em> to lose. <em>Maybe John isn't ready for this. Maybe he never will be. But he left Westray. He left Westray and came to tell me I was wrong, when his very being here right now contradicts that statement.</em></p><p>"I don't know," John admits sheepishly. He looks shy, suddenly, and takes a moment before daring to look up at Sherlock, now standing beside his own chair. He longs to cross the distance between them, to abandon words and give into the impulse to wrap his arms around London. It breaks his heart to see him in such conflict, in such turmoil and doubt and blatant temptation. <em>Why can't we just shed all this baggage and do what we want?</em></p><p>"I don't know where to go from here," John admits. "I'll see about the house, then… I don't know. I didn't plan to come see you today but thinking about sleeping alone there was a bit much. I walked for a few hours, then came here."</p><p>"You don't have to explain," Sherlock says quietly. "I'm glad you did."</p><p>"What happened to me and Mary–– I know it's not a good start for anything new, and I understand if you're not interested in something like that."</p><p>Sherlock raises a hand to stop him right there. "I didn't enter into this unattached. Many cultures believe that the dead can cling to the living, cause trouble for them. You have Mary, I have Victor. <em>Had</em> Victor, perhaps. I'm not entirely certain he'll be completely gone, just as I wouldn't expect Mary to be fully of the past. I would very much like to see how we could…" he trails out, bites his lip, "…find a way to keep them at a safe distance."</p><p>John nods, looking resigned. "Would you consider trying out some sort of a fresh start? Maybe we could have a go at it first as fr––</p><p>"––flatmates!" Sherlock blurts out. <em>God, his tongue won't obey at all today!</em></p><p>John's brows do some strange acrobatics. "<em>Flatmates</em>?"</p><p>"There's plenty of room, we could split the rent; Mrs Hudson gives me a good deal on it, long story; she'd be delighted to have us both here, I'm sure."</p><p>"Why are you sure?" John asks, confounded.</p><p>Sherlock ignores that; he has drawn a much-needed breath and can continue his verbal barrage. "We already know the worst about each other, but I might add that sometimes I don't talk for days on end and I play the violin, sometimes at odd hours. We both have nightmares so that makes us even in a way, you can take the bedroom upstairs, or we could share, or––"</p><p><em>How does friends slash flatmates work, exactly?</em> Sherlock has no idea, but he's excited to find out.</p><p>"That doesn't sound too bad," John answers after a moment's consideration. "I'm sure I've had worse flatmates during uni. My nightmares can be noisy, though. I can be a moody bastard, like Mary said, but maybe you've seen a bit of that already."</p><p>"I have, and none of it would put me off. Very few people would have me as a flatmate. Or a friend."</p><p>"I'd consider very few people as flatmates. Or be able to keep as friends. And once I get settled back into London and living here, then maybe… we can see where we go from there."</p><p>"I'd like that," Sherlock says, trying desperately to contain his nervous excitement. Not only is John here, but John will <em>live</em> here! How can this even be the same day during which he'd slipped out from Christian's bed? <em>Oh, sod that fucker. Sod all of them. Let them copulate all over London and die alone.</em></p><p>"But what about your other house? On Westray?" Sherlock scrambles to ask.</p><p>John shrugs. "Everyone needs a cottage, don't they? You didn't seem to hate it there quite as much as you pretended originally," he teases.</p><p>"It was the company, nothing else, that made it tolerable," Sherlock replies deadpan. John will know he's bluffing at least a little. He wouldn't mind a holiday in Scotland every once in a while, as long as they are short. He does wonder if John would feel awkward returning as a couple, but that's John's dilemma to process, not his. As he had told John, he's done being the soft, warm body of a landing in the sexual crises of others.</p><p>John reaches out for his hand, slips two fingers between Sherlock's thumb and forefinger, and Sherlock gives them a squeeze. How can such a thing have so much meaning than an entire night with someone else? Had he mistakenly equated trusting his body to them as the most present he could be with someone? He realises he'd never trusted his mind and body both to Victor, not really, because he always feared the former might be rejected. With Victor, with Christian and all the rest, he'd felt like treading water, felt like drowning. Now, with the touch of just two gentle fingers, he feels like being pulled slowly but steadily towards the surface.</p><p>Were he a superstitious person, he might now study the shadows in the corners of the room, might try to spot how they must be shifting to make room for the overwhelming lightness and promise he feels. It's a tide, but this one does not submerge him. Instead, it washes away the soot of pain and regret, makes everything brighter. Victor has been here, a spectre he kept summoning. Now, Victor will be evicted, and someone living will take his place. He and John will build a new foundation for what has happened and should and <em>will</em> happen between them, if Sherlock gets a say. He's had a taste of a different kind of life, now, and that life cannot be recreated without John Watson. It's still such a difficult thought to accept that John would want him, would want him <em>like this, </em>feeling hung over on just a few lines and with the scent of another man's aftershave on him. But he does. And it's a wonder that makes the waters part.</p><p>Sherlock loosens his grip just enough to snatch John's entire hand into his own. "You'd better sit back down, then. We should discuss the practicalities over some brandy." He feels achingly giddy and painfully nervous at the same time. In fact, he feels exactly as he'd felt when he'd kissed a boy for the first time. As he'd felt when he'd cracked his first case. As he'd felt when he'd seen John Watson for the first time. <em>Say yes, say yes, say yes––</em> "Oh God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by the brandy, of course we shouldn't since you haven't since I left––" <em>Idiot, idiot, idiot!</em></p><p>John bursts out laughing at his sudden regretful outburst. "It's fine. Maybe we might have that tea, instead?"</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— The End —<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/></strong>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <b>“The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.”<br/></b>
  <br/>
  <i>― James Joyce, Ulysses</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Thank you all who shared this journey with me and our desperate, damaged men. May they find some happiness together. A particular thanks goes out to those who assisted in and supported the creation of this tale.</p><p>To conclude this story, I would recommend having a listen to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfNOogGqSLA">John and Sherlock's waltz</a>. Lyrics can be found <a href="https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/leonardcohen/takethiswaltz.html">here</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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